


A little help (goes a long way)

by diamondjacket



Series: A little help [3]
Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: (LOTS of talking about sex), 5+1 Things, Allusions to pegging, Canon Compliant, Coming Out, Discussions of intimacy, Discussions of sexuality, Drunkenness, Embarrassment, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Crack, Friendship, Grinding, Humor, Isak's friends are still nosy and have no boundaries, Lots of talking about blowjobs, M/M, Mentions of Even's Past, Public Display of Affection, Reluctant sex guru!Isak, Sexy flashbacks, talking about sex, very mild possessiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-03 01:38:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11521824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diamondjacket/pseuds/diamondjacket
Summary: “You’re the only one who can help me!” Magnus says, desperation plain on his face. “Or should I ask Even, instead? If you guys would justtellme who takes it up the bu—”“Magnus,” Isak says warningly. “For the love of God,not again.”Or: Five times the grasshopper becomes the guru (and one time...well, you get it).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm finally finishing this ancient series that very few people remember! I really wanted to post the whole thing as a big oneshot, but life and my job are going to be fairly intense this week and I've been promising some folks that this fic was on the way for SO LONG now...I thought that since this is a 5+1 fic, it would be better/less annoying to post these little vignettes as I finish them! They're all planned out, so hopefully the wait between mini-installments will be short. :) I'll be adding tags/characters as I go! 
> 
> This is a threequel to [this fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8900881) and [this fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9121330). Note that even though there won't really be any actual sex, there will be LOTS of talking about it (obviously), so if that's not your thing, I'd avoid! If you dig Isak's perpetual embarrassment, as I do, enjoy. <3

It starts—like just about everything fucked up in Isak’s life, these days—with Magnus.

The two of them are chilling at Isak’s place, waiting for Jonas and Mahdi to return from their impromptu McDonald’s run and Even to finish his shift at KB. They’re just the tiniest bit high, too, thanks to Mahdi’s killer stash—not high enough to impair them, but enough to be comfortable in the mutual silence (and to be eagerly anticipating the arrival of trans fats).

Until Magnus decides to ruin it, anyway.

“Vilde wants to try anal,” he blurts, apropos of nothing, face contorted like he’s debating whether to be smug or embarrassed. The expression is made extra stupid by his position: lying on his back across Isak and Even’s bed, head hanging over the side, face red and hair falling limply onto the floor.

Isak just...blinks. Shakes his head. Blinks again.

“What,” he says, less of a question and more of a resigned, anguished lament. _I’m not nearly high enough for this_ , he thinks, before realizing that he’d have to be more plant than man to actually achieve that level of not giving a fuck.

Magnus shrugs, but it’s upside down and looks incredibly, laughably odd to Isak’s weed-clouded mind.

“She says it will help us, like, _build intimacy_ , or something,” Magnus states, over-enunciating the term like he’s reading it from a book report. “And that it will help her last longer.”

Wait, what?

“It’ll help _her_ last longer?” Isak asks incredulously. He can’t possibly have heard that right.

Magnus furrows his brow. “Yeah?” he says, clearly confused. “Sometimes I make her come, like, really fast. Is that...is that not normal?”

Admittedly, Isak’s experience with lady parts is more _academic_ than practical. Even so, from what he’s heard, he knows that struggling to last is an issue that’s more common among, you know, dicks. Or people who have dicks. Dick-havers.

He struggled with it, himself, when he and Even first started fucking. They both did. _Ah, memories._

 _Is Magnus, like...really good at sex?_ Isak thinks, unbidden, before his brain steps in to shut that shit down.

He’s gotten really skilled at avoiding permanent mental trauma by snuffing out the really bad thoughts—the ones that, once thought, cannot be unthought—before they can gain steam.

“I...really don’t know that, man,” he says, slowly, because saying, _no, Magnus, I am uneducated in the ways of pussy_ seems like too much of a mouthful. “Can’t girls come, like, more than once, anyway?”

Magnus’s whole face lights up. “Oh yeah, bro!” he says, gesticulating wildly. “Sometimes I can get her there like, two, three times before I even put it i—”

“ _Ooooo_ kay,” Isak cuts in quickly. He’s never regretted bringing up a topic more in his life. “Instead of talking about that, let’s just...not. If that’s cool.”

“Fine,” Magnus says, unperturbed. “But...anal.”

Isak sighs, looking up at the heavens—or his upstairs neighbors, who he’d rather not face given that they’ve almost certainly heard what he and Even sound like in the throes of passion—for help.

“What about it?” he asks.

Magnus gives him a wide-eyed, exasperated look. “How?” he exclaims. “How do I...you know…”

Isak does know. But playing dumb will buy him an additional fifteen seconds before he’s officially scarred for life, and he’s not going to pass them up.

“What?”

Magnus groans. “You know, get it _in_ there!” he says, rolling over onto his stomach and lifting his head—which is good, because he was getting _really_ red. “How does it _fit_?”

Typical.

 _Is this my life now?_ Isak wonders idly. _Is it now my job to serve as some sort of gay spirit guide to all my straight friends? Surely that’s not my destiny?_

“Mags—”

“You’re the only one who can help me!” Magnus says, desperation plain on his face. “Or should I ask Even, instead? If you guys would just _tell me_ who takes it up the bu—”

“ _Magnus_ ,” Isak says warningly. “For the love of God, _not again_.”

Isak knows, objectively, that the shit he pulled in first year with Eva and Jonas was fucked up. But they’re back together now, and happy, so surely the universe is done punishing him for it? Or is it now exacting a toll for bad deeds from previous lives, too?

Magnus huffs. “I don’t know why you won’t just tell me, bro, I tell you guys all the stuff I do with Vilde.”

“Yeah, and no one asks you to do that,” Isak points out, reaching for his phone and unlocking it. At his current level of frustration, there’s only one person who can talk him down.

 **To Even** : _mags is asking about our sex life again_

“Because bros should be open with each other, okay?” Magnus is ranting. “I was reading in one of Vilde’s magazines that having a mutual support system—”

 **From Even** : _must be a day ending in ‘g’_

Isak snorts, having no trouble tuning Magnus out—is he talking about _Oprah_ , now?

 **To Even** : _asked about which one of us “takes it up the butt”_

 **From Even** : _wow. 3rd time this month, right?_

 **To Even** : _4th, i think_

 **From Even** : _what did we tell him last time?_

 **To Even:** _that every time we fuck we play trivial pursuit to decide who bottoms_

Isak can’t help but smile at the memory of Magnus tilting his head at them like a confused puppy—it had taken him way, _way_ too long to figure out they were fucking with him. And then a couple of nights later, Even had interrupted a particularly legendary blowjob—in the face of extreme protest—so he could grab the Trivial Pursuit box out of their closet, and Isak had laughed for a full five minutes. Like, doubled over, stomach hurts, can’t-catch-your-breath kind of laughter.

It had taken them a long time to get the mood going again, but it had been worth it.

 **From Even** : _that was a good one_

 **To Even** : _think i might go with battleship, this time_

 **From Even** : _good luck bby_

 **To Even** : _ <3 _

Magnus is still whining about...something...when Isak puts his phone back in his pocket.

“Mags,” Isak interrupts, and he can feel a tiny, amused smile pull at his lips. It’s kind of ludicrous how much a short text conversation with Even can make all the minuscule, unimportant bullshit in his life melt away. With _ease_. He knows it makes him a giant sap, the likes of which he would rag on endlessly if it was somebody else, but you know what? Fuck it. He just can’t find it in himself to care.

Magnus’s mouth snaps closed, before he lets out a pitiful, “Please help me.”

Isak strategizes how to impart the most information in the fewest number of words, and get them back to talking about the new season of _Game of Thrones_ as quickly as possible.

“Go slow, prep first, use lube,” he says, grimacing. “A _lot_ of lube.”

He and Even are pretty good at gauging the exact amount they need to get the job done, now, but he figures it can’t hurt for Magnus to play it safe. He’s not going to be responsible for anything untoward happening to Vilde’s... _areas_. Isak shudders.

Magnus is quiet for a few beats, like he’s hard at work absorbing all of this strange new information.

“Um,” he says, gulping. “I have...questions.”

_Fuck._

Isak sighs. “Yes?” he asks, bracing for what will undoubtedly be several long minutes of painful, protracted torture.

“Well, like...what does ‘prep’ mean?”

_Oh good God._

He pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers, mentally retracing every step he’s ever taken in his life that may have led him to this deeply upsetting moment. If he can only pinpoint the moment it all went wrong, he’ll know exactly when and where to go when time travel becomes a thing.

“You know…” he says, even though it’s become abundantly clear that no, Magnus does not, in fact, know. “Fingers. To...stretch it out.”

Magnus’s eyes go wide. “Fingers?” he yelps, in that squeaky register he uses when he’s taken off guard. It is in no way endearing.

Isak still rolls his eyes, because, well. How is this _news_?

“Uh, _yeah_ , bro,” he says, shooting Magnus an incredulous look. “Did you think you could just...shove it in there right away?” Yet another horrifying image that will take years of diligent work to completely scrub from his brain.

Magnus frowns. “Well...that’s what they do in porn, so I thought…”

 _Jesus_. Straight porn. Isak has exactly zero fond memories of it.

“Do yourself a fucking favor, Mags,” Isak says, slowly, emphatically, like he’s speaking to a small child. “Don’t take your cues from porn.”

Isak learned that the hard way. The first time he attempted an elaborate sex position he saw online, he ended up socking Even right in the nose. There was _blood_. Even was fine, but he didn’t let Isak live it down for a solid month and a half.

The look on Magnus’s face shifts from confusion, to suspicion, to profound betrayal. The exact same expression he probably wore when he learned about the non-existence of Santa Claus.

Isak decides to make it easy for him. “If you don’t prep,” he starts, looking Magnus directly in the eye. “You’ll hurt her. Is that what you want?”

Judging by how utterly devastated Magnus looks at his words, he knows it was the right move.

“Dude, of course not!” Magnus says, vaguely panicked. “I’d never forgive myself.”

Isak tamps down on a smile. Sometimes, _sometimes_ , in his weakest moments, he finds Magnus’s devotion to Vilde almost... _cute_. He’d have to be held down and have each of his fingernails pried off with pliers to admit it out loud, though. And maybe not even then.

“Right,” he says, nodding. “So...fingers.” Technically, he knows toys are also an option...but there’s no way in hell he’s going there with Magnus. Not today. Not _ever_.

Just as he’s starting to think that the matter is settled and he can start the long, grueling process of moving on with his life, Magnus ruins it.

“How many?”

Isak groans.

“I don’t know, man!” he exclaims. “It depends.”

“On what?”

Every time he thinks he’s hit a low point in this friendship, the floor gets two feet deeper.

“Ugh,” Isak says, throwing his hands up. “On a lot of stuff.”

“ _Tell me_ ,” Magnus whines, and he actually kicks his feet a little, like a toddler throwing a tantrum.

Isak regrets everything. Just...everything. All the things.

“Like…” he says, fruitlessly stalling because he _really_ doesn’t want to say these next few words. “How big you are, or whatever.” But suddenly, something comes to him, and he grins slyly. “So I wouldn’t worry about using too many.”

Ah, yes. Nothing like laying a solid burn on Magnus—a simple pleasure that Isak’s quite sure will never, ever get old, and probably the only thing that can turn this night around.

Magnus gapes in a particularly satisfying way, squawking in outrage, and everything’s as it should be.

Until, that is, Magnus’s face settles into something calmer and...scheming?

“So you’ve been looking?” Magnus says, smirking.

Isak’s mouth falls open unattractively.

Did...did that just happen? Did Magnus just... _successfully burn him_? Has the world gone absolutely fucking _mad_?

Magnus takes stock of Isak’s surprise and fist pumps the air, crowing in surprised delight at his own unexpected genius.

“Fuuuck,” he groans suddenly, burying his face in his hands. “Why is no one ever around when I actually _get_ one?”

 _Thank fuck for that_ , Isak thinks. There’s no way the boys would ever let him forget getting bested by Magnus in such humiliating fashion. They’d probably have it engraved on his tombstone.

Silence descends, and Isak hopes, prays with everything he has, that this conversation is finally over and Magnus will leave him to pester Even at work in peace. There’s a dick pic on his phone he’s been saving for just such an occasion—he has yet to decide if he’s really a dick pic sort of guy, but he’s eager to find out.

But Magnus isn’t having it, apparently.

“Man,” he says, stretching his arms above his head and grunting happily. “I can’t _wait_ to not have to use a condom. You’re so lucky you don’t have to deal with that shit.”

And...wait. _What_?

Isak levels him with a blank stare. “What do you mean?”

Magnus just shrugs, like it should be obvious. “Because neither of you can get pregnant!” he says, looking at Isak like he’s the one with the problem. Isak.  _This unbelievable motherfucker._

“Man, condoms are _such_ a drag,” Magnus continues, with the same irritating air of condescension a wealthy, middle-aged man would use to explain the process of paying income tax to a child.

“Mags,” Isak cuts in, because if he allows this to go on any longer, he just might snap. He has no idea what snapping entails, exactly, but it would probably land him in a max-security prison. “We use condoms.”

Magnus blinks at him, dumbfounded. “You _do_?” he asks. “Why?”

It’s a really, really good thing the universe didn’t bestow Isak with laser eyes or Darth Vader’s force-choking skills, because Magnus would almost certainly be a dead man by now

“Because STDs are a thing?” Isak says, incredulous. “What the fuck is wrong with you, man?”

“But...but…” Magnus stutters, before giving up. “Huh.”

“ _Yeah_.”

Magnus has the audacity to pout. To fucking _pout_ , when Isak’s trying to lay down some essential knowledge, here.

“But I’ve only ever been with her,” Magnus says, and Isak struggles not to roll his eyes.

“Has she only ever been with you?” he asks, and the resulting silence says it all. “Exactly. If you want to do it without one, you both gotta get tested. If not, wrap it up tight and stop complaining. It’s not _that_ bad.”

There. He can’t lay it out in clearer terms than that. Magnus tilts his head and strokes his chin, like the cogs in his head are turning in search of a loophole.

“Can’t I just—”

“No.”

“But what about—”

“ _No, Mags._ ”

“Ugh, fine,” Magnus says, sullen in his defeat. He toys with the blanket on the bed for a moment, before looking up at Isak with something akin to awe on his face.

“You know…” he says, like he’s gearing up for something, and Isak doesn’t like this one bit. “You’re really smart about this stuff. Like...mature.”

Isak really _does_ roll his eyes, this time.

“Okay, Mags.”

“No, really!” Magnus insists, face so earnest it’s almost heartbreaking. He has a real way of dismantling one’s defenses with that wide-eyed, doughy moon face of his, and Isak resents the hell out of how much it affects him. “You’re like...my sex guru.”

 _Um, the fuck_? Okay, first of all, _gross_ , but second of all...did he have to use that particular word? Has Magnus been spending a lot of time around Eskild, lately? What _else_ has Eskild told him? Because he talked to him about the dildo thing in confidence, okay, and...

Speak of the devil, Eskild can _never_ find out about this, Isak decides.

Thankfully, Jonas and Mahdi choose that moment to come crashing through the front door, arms laden with grease-stained bags filled with God knows what, but whatever’s in there smells fucking incredible and Isak wants all of it in his body in approximately 0.05 seconds.

Magnus seems to agree, because he springs off the bed like he’s on fire and starts ripping into the food almost immediately, their intensely awkward and borderline life-destroying conversation completely forgotten in the face of fried food.

A few minutes later, Isak’s happily munching on a French fry and sending a text to Even.

 **To Even** : _i think i survived_

 **From Even** : _i’m glad. you still owe me a bj and i can’t cash it in if you’re dead_

Isak flushes, but mentally files that away for later tonight. He’s got _plans_.

 **To Even** : _mags wants to do anal with vilde_

 **From Even** : ... _wow_.

 **From Even** : _not information i needed or wanted_

Isak smirks. If he had to suffer through that indignity, he’s damn well going to make Even shoulder some of the burden. It’s his boyfriendly privilege.

 **To Even** : _he didn’t think he needed a condom for it_

 **From Even** : _yikes_

 **To Even** : _yeah. i had to break the bad news to him_

 **From Even** : _aww you gave him a safe sex lecture?_

Oh God. Isak already regrets bringing it up.

 **To Even** : _no_

 **From Even** : _did you show him pictures of dicks with herpes?_

 **To Even** : _NO_

 **From Even** : _did you do a condom demonstration on a banana?_

 **To Even** : _you ate the last banana this morning_

It’s not his best comeback...but it’s not his worst, either. Unfortunately.

 **From Even** : _i’m proud of you, bby_

 **To Even** : _shut up_

 **From Even** : _ <3 _

**To Even** : _ <3 _

Isak thinks that’s where they’re going to leave it—at least until Even gets home and Isak can focus on paying back certain blowjob-related debts—when his phone dings again.

 **From Even** : _sooooo...is this a bad time to tell you that i got my test results back and i’m all clear?_

He can’t tell if it’s real or some weed-induced trickery, but Isak’s pretty sure he can feel the blood galloping from his brain to his dick _in real time_.

 **To Even** : _are you serious?_

 **From Even** : _very_

Fuck. Suddenly, Isak’s plans from earlier have just been given a serious, first-class upgrade.

 **To Even** : _how soon is your shift over?_

 **From Even** : _not soon enough_

 **To Even** : _can you pretend you’re sick?_

 **From Even** : _i don’t know...i really need the tips_

Nope, unacceptable. Isak decides it’s time to go for the jugular.

 **To Even** : _well i’m kicking the boys out and getting started, with or without you_

The response comes far, far too quickly, which means Even’s not even trying to play it cool. He makes very little effort to hide his thirst, now that they’ve moved past the coy games and the posturing that come with a new relationship. It’s been an extremely gratifying byproduct of living together.

 **From Even** : _...i’ll be there in 20_

Isak grins. It’s almost too easy.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ack, I don't even know what this is, and it definitely didn't end up as funny as I was hoping. But I hope it's vaguely enjoyable, all the same! I added some more official tags, but there's also a vaguely spoilery one (lol @ me for pretending this thing has a plot) in the end notes, if you want to check that first. I promise it's nothing upsetting! :) Also, this chapter gets playfully anti-William...but it's not much, so I think you can probably still read if you like him? Maybe.
> 
> This one's for all my Mahdi bitches. \o/

When Mahdi comes up to Isak at his locker with a strangely determined look on his face and a distinct lack of Magnus or Jonas trailing behind him, alarm bells start sounding loudly in Isak’s head.

To the beat of Enrique Iglesias’ “Bailamos,” weirdly enough.

(Isak’s going to go ahead and blame Even—and his excruciating habit of serenading Isak with whatever crappy pop music’s on Spotify—for getting it stuck in his head. He’s definitely not blushing at the memory.)

(He’s _not_.)

Isak doesn’t know what it says about his life that he’s now instantly suspicious whenever someone approaches him alone, but whatever it means, it probably ends in therapy.

When Mahdi reaches Isak’s locker, he looks like he’s getting ready to say something...but he can’t quite get it out. He looks...hesitant? _Nervous_ , even—which is so insane, so grossly out of character, it’s almost enough to compel Isak reach out to feel Mahdi’s forehead and check for a fever. Is that something bros typically do for each other? No, right?

“Can I...help you?” Isak asks warily, not entirely convinced that Mahdi isn’t concussed. He’s always riding his bike without a helmet, even though Isak constantly tells him he’s flirting with death. A brain-damaging accident was bound to happen eventually.

Mahdi just looks down, like he’s _embarrassed_. Isak has a very, very bad feeling about this.

He tries to reason with his inner skeptic. This is _Mahdi_. The most chill person Isak knows. Hell, probably the most chill person in Norway—in this _hemisphere_. Like, Guinness World Record, give the man a goddamn trophy level of chill. Surely he won’t—

“How did you know Even was into you?” he blurts.

Just...asks it. No fist bump. No “ _hey, bro_.” Nothing. Just says it, snaps his mouth closed, and stares at Isak expectantly, like a baby bird waiting for its mother to regurgitate some choice worm into his mouth.

Okay, maybe not that. If Isak could side-eye his own brain, he would, because _ew_.

But Isak’s unfortunate imagination aside, it’s fucking _weird_.

Like, _really fucking weird._

He knows that Mahdi’s question isn’t supremely odd or anything, on its face.

After all, it’s not like he’s asking about anal beads, which was the subject of a real-life text message Magnus sent Isak last week—a text Isak had stared at in horror for a solid minute before wordlessly shoving his phone at Even and banging his head against their table. Even had snorted loudly, and then proceeded to text Magnus that Isak was feeling under the weather and shouldn’t be disturbed. A noble effort that Isak rewarded—skillfully and enthusiastically—later that night.

Isak’s quickly learning the value of positive reinforcement in a relationship.

But Isak and Mahdi don’t...do this, normally. They work as a duo within a foursome (or fivesome, now that Even’s around more often than not). Two distinct parts that complement a larger whole. But this? Isak and Mahdi, Friends Who Confide? It’s a theory that is, so far, mostly untested.

“Uhh,” Isak says, the most intelligent response he can muster, even after all that internal philosophizing. “What?”

Mahdi raises his eyebrows. “Like....how could you tell that he wanted to get with you, or whatever.”

Isak takes a moment to pull his coffee-stained chemistry notebook out of his locker and shove it in his bag, like it will somehow make all of this less surreal.

“I...don’t know,” he says, because he’s not sure he _does_ know. Honestly, he’s not sure he allowed himself to believe Even could want him until they were sucking face in a stranger’s pool. Maybe not even then. Fuck, he can hardly believe it _now_. “I didn’t, for a while. Not for sure.”

A frown creeps over Mahdi’s face, like he’s struggling to accept it. “You didn’t know?” he asks. “How could you not know?”

_Because I’m a fucking idiot, man, what do you want me to say?_

Isak huffs. “I...had hoped, I guess, but…” he says, before remembering that, _ha_ , this can be a two-sided interrogation, _Mahdi_. “Why are you asking me this, anyway?”

Mahdi just shrugs, an infuriating non-response that makes Isak want to scream. “Just wondering,” he says, far too casually. Isak doesn’t believe him as far as he can throw him.

Which, granted, isn’t particularly far—Isak may be taller, but Mahdi is all muscle. When Isak had attempted to shove him that time outside Emma’s party, it had been like running into a compact brick wall.

“Ooookay,” Isak says, hoping beyond all hope that they’ve reached the end of this exceedingly awkward conversation.

There’s a reason Isak and Mahdi don’t do this—he doesn’t really have the emotional closeness with Mahdi that he shares with Jonas, the kind borne of years of friendship, and Mahdi has far too much shame to plow through an uncomfortable line of questioning like Magnus does.

But Mahdi’s not moving, this time. He bites his lip, like he still has more to say but doesn’t know if he’s allowed.

“You know how when a girl is into you, she like...laughs and plays with her hair a lot and, like, touches your arm and stuff?” he asks, finally.

Even though Isak tries his level best to mentally repress his brief stint as Sara’s boyfriend, he does have a vague memory of her doing some of that. Mostly, he remembers how fucking _awful_ he’d feel every time she’d flick her hair or slide her hand up his arm or shoot him a flirty look. Because he could never bring himself to reciprocate, was always on the lookout for the quickest way to extricate himself so he could go home and be beautifully, blessedly alone.

He watched a lot of porn, in those days. A _lot_.

Too much, really. There was a lot of chafing.

“Yeah, I guess,” he says. Seems easier than telling Mahdi about his past self’s unhealthy coping mechanisms. (Or the chafing.)

“Well, like…” Mahdi starts, deftly catching a falling pen as it rolls out of Isak’s disaster of a locker and handing it back to him. Because he’s just that cool, even at his worst moments. “Is it the same with guys?”

 _Huh_. That’s...interesting.

“Maybe?” Isak says, tamping down hard on the question he really wants to ask, because it’s none of his business until Mahdi _makes_ it his business. This may be uncharted territory for them, but he’s going to be a good friend, even if it kills him.

Whatever ends up killing him will most likely involve his friends, anyway, so. Wouldn’t be a huge surprise.

“There was a lot of, uh, smiling,” he continues, because even though Even had tried desperately to play it cool (and succeeded, really, if only because Isak had been love-dumb enough to miss the neon sign flashing _I’M A DORK!_ above Even’s head), he was—and is—a smiley fucker. “And he...looked at me, a lot?”

Mahdi levels him with a deeply unimpressed expression. “He looked at you a lot,” he repeats flatly. He clearly does not appreciate Isak’s lack of specifics.

“I don’t know, dude!” Isak says, throwing his hands up. “I was trying not to look back too much, you know?”

Trying, but mostly failing. Not that Mahdi needs to know that.

Realization dawns on Mahdi’s face, then, and he grins—that knowing, too-happy grin that qualifies his face as one of the most aggressively _pleasant_ ones Isak’s ever seen.

“Trying to play it cool,” Mahdi says, nodding in approval. “Smart.”

That Isak doesn’t bark out a laugh right in Mahdi’s face is, quite frankly, miraculous.

“...right,” he says. Much easier than trying to explain just how little strategy had been involved (none, to be exact)—that his actions were those of an awkward, closeted nerd trying desperately not to look like a fucking idiot.

Mahdi’s face turns contemplative. “So is that what dudes go for?” he asks, with the air of a student squeezing in one more question at the end of his professor’s office hours. “When you play hard to get?”

_Fucking hell._

Considering Isak’s research features an impressive sample size of...one guy...he’s not exactly confident in his ability to answer that. Unless he counts his brief experience on Grindr, but the concept of “hard to get” doesn’t really apply to that terrifying, come-spattered wasteland.

“Honestly, bro,” he says, closing his locker and leaning against it. “I’m...not really the best person to ask. Even’s the only one I’ve ever...you know.”

Mahdi’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “You never tried…?”

Uh, _no_. Do his friends think that Isak had just been, like, gaying it up on the side that whole time? He’s not sure if he should be offended or flattered.

“Nope,” he replies, shrugging.

Mahdi nods, immediately accepting that information like a champ and, thankfully, not pressing the issue any further. Isak’s not sure he could survive an inquisition about his (lack of) sexual history, so he’s grateful for the tact. He gets quite enough of that crap from Magnus, thanks.

“So like...what does Even do, when he wants to get all up on that?”

Isak nearly chokes on his own saliva.

“ _What_?”

Serves him right for giving Mahdi the benefit of the doubt. Clearly, Isak can trust _no one_.

Except for Even. Even’s still cool. _Even_ made him eggs this morning, and drew helpful illustrations on Isak’s biology flashcards, and ate him out last night, so. _What have_ you _done, Mahdi?_

Even in the face of Isak’s internal strife, Mahdi maintains his annoying, deeply frustrating aura of calm. “I’m serious,” he says. “How does he act? Is there some kind of, like, signal—”

“ _Signal_?” Isak yelps. And you know what? He’s done with this shit. If Isak has to suffer this early in the morning, he thinks he deserves to know why.

“Okay, what’s going on with you, bro?” he asks, point blank, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Are you conducting some kind of weird scientific analysis?”

While it’s not a particularly Mahdi thing to do, Isak would almost respect it, if it was true.

Mahdi just shrugs again, the bastard. “I don’t know, man,” he says. “Will saying yes make you stop fidgeting and answer my fucking question?”

Okay, fuck this. Honestly, the _disrespect_ —

“Well if you don’t _want_ my help…” Isak says offhandedly, turning to walk away. He knows it’s kind of a dick move—but he’s endured a lot of personal growth, lately, and sometimes he misses being an asshole. He’s allowed to indulge himself, every now and then.

Mahdi reaches out to grab his arm, laughing a little. “Come on, bro,” he says. “You gotta help me.” His eyes, usually so soft and bright and happy, look at Isak pleadingly.

And suddenly, Isak _gets it_. He was all wrong, before—he doesn’t need to wait for Mahdi to tell him, after all.

Mahdi needs a push.

“Are you...” Isak starts, hesitant, studying Mahdi’s reaction for signs of panic. “Are you interested in hooking up with a guy?”

The expression that comes over Mahdi’s face is definitely uncomfortable, but also a little relieved, and Isak knows he’s done the right thing.

He thinks back to last year, when every cell in his body had been begging him to just _tell someone, please_ , when it had taken a herculean effort to finally come out to Jonas, even in a roundabout way. He hadn’t known it at the time, but what he’d wanted more than anything was for one of his friends to just...ask him.

Mahdi gives another little shrug, almost like a reflex, and reaches up to rub the back of his neck. “Maybe,” is all he says, but it’s enough.

“Cool,” Isak says, emphatically. And that’s that.

A vaguely awkward silence descends, and—oh. Right. Now’s his cue to actually, like, offer some real advice. Great.

“Listen,” he says, thinking about putting his hand on Mahdi’s shoulder, but ultimately deciding it would make him feel a little too much like he’s a cool dad reassuring his son after he caught him masturbating. “I’m not an expert, or anything”— _understatement of the century_ —“but...you’re a nice, good-looking, funny guy. With, like, a good personality. And muscles, and stuff. Whoever this guy is, I’m sure he wants to bang you.”

_Nice, Isak. Master of eloquence, there._

Mahdi looks like he might be holding in a laugh, but he finally settles on a wide, appreciative smile. “Thanks, bro.”

Isak finds himself smiling back, once again overwhelmed by the general "what the fuck" quality this moment has taken on.

“Just, like, be yourself,” Isak continues. It’s solid advice—impossible to actually carry out in practice, of course, but solid in theory. “Tell him what you want. If it’s meant to happen, it’ll happen.”

_See, Mahdi? You’re not the only one who can be chill._

“Okay,” Mahdi says, readjusting the strap on his backpack, and they start walking down the hall, side by side. Isak vaguely remembers that their next classes are in the same direction.

Just when Isak’s sure that they’re about to pivot to a lighter topic—Isak’s itching to tell someone about _finally_ beating Jonas at FIFA, since part of him is worried Jonas won’t own up to it since there were no other witnesses—Mahdi decides he’s not quite done.

“So...is it different from being with a girl?” he asks casually.

Isak frowns. “Is what different?”

Mahdi raises his eyebrows. “You know…”

Oh.

 _Oh_.

Despite his best efforts, he feels his cheeks grow warm.

“Uh,” Isak says, brain chugging at top speed to figure out how he’s going to swing this one. Sadly, he figures the truth is probably the least painful option, here. “I never actually, um. With a girl.” He gulps. “Yeah.”

Mahdi stops in his tracks, gaping. It’s an exceptionally un-Mahdi look.

After a beat of silence, he snorts and shakes his head.

“Wow,” he says. “All this time, I thought you had game.”

Isak knows full well that he does not, in fact, have game, and that he’s incredibly lucky to have found a significant other who’s okay with that, but he can’t help but get a little indignant.

“Hey,” he warns. “I could have done it if I wanted to, okay?”

“Sure,” Mahdi says, because he’s actually a very, very mean person, deep down.

“I was busy with other things!”

Mahdi scoffs. “Like what?”

“Like being _gay as hell_.”

They’re both laughing, at this point, so his heated declaration kind of loses its impact.

Isak is surprisingly okay with that.

 

###

 

“ _Broooooo_ ,” Magnus calls out the following Monday, skidding to a halt in front of Isak and Jonas where they’re sitting on the bench. He’s breathing hard with exertion.

“Dude, calm down,” Jonas says. “What is it?” Like Magnus is a dog alerting them that a child is in danger.

“Did you hear that Mahdi hooked up with someone this weekend?” he asks excitedly, hands on his knees as he gulps in air.

Jonas shrugs. “So? He hooks up with a chick every week,” he says, which is...fair, honestly. When it comes to getting it in, Mahdi’s conversion rate is by far the best of all of them. Probably better than most people at their _school_.

Magnus’s eyes go wide. “Yeah, but...we didn’t hear from him all weekend,” he says. “Have you heard from him?”

Now that Isak thinks about it, Mahdi has been surprisingly MIA the past couple of days. Usually he’s the one most game to do things, whether it’s crashing a party or watching one of Even’s pretentious Danish films that make Isak want to claw his own eyes out. But Isak hasn’t heard a peep from him since...well. Since their awkward-ass conversation on Friday.

“Huh,” Jonas says, clearly coming to a similar realization. “Must have been a pretty awesome chick. I wonder who she is?”

As he and Magnus start running down a verbal list of every unattached female they know, Isak stays quiet.

He wonders if... _hmm_.

He wonders.

 

###

 

“Isak!” a girl’s voice rings out from behind him, and when he turns around, Noora is rushing up to him with a bundle in her arms.

“Hi,” he says, both surprised and a little pleased to see her. He only ever gets to spend time with Noora in large group settings nowadays, and even then, she’s usually attached at the hip to William. And, well. Isak can only take so much of that. He’s a human being, and he doesn’t quite hate himself enough to endure it for more than five minutes. Life’s too short.

“Hi,” she says, a little out of breath from rushing to catch up with him. “I’m glad I caught you. Can you give this to Mahdi, next time you see him?”

It’s only then that Isak recognizes what she’s holding—Mahdi’s blue Adidas jacket. He identifies it right away because it’s the same jacket he’s “borrowed” on a number of occasions, in the hope that Mahdi wouldn’t miss it and eventually forget its existence. No such luck, yet.

What? It’s a nice jacket. Even says it brings out the _blue undertones_ of his eyes. Isak is only about sixty percent sure what that means, but he’s fairly certain it’s a good thing.

He takes it from her, gingerly, like it could bite him at any moment.

“Okaaaay,” Isak says slowly, confused. “How did you get it?”

Noora just shrugs.

 _Why is everyone so damn nonchalant, all of a sudden? It’s disturbing_.

“He left it at our place this weekend.”

And...wait. Hold up.

Hold the  _fuck_ up.

He _didn’t_...

Did Mahdi hook up with _Noora_?

He feels his jaw drop and he knows he must be gaping like a surprised trout, but, like... _what?_ After forcing Isak to participate in that long, excruciating discussion on Friday, he just up and immediately bangs a _girl_? What gives? Isak can’t help but feel a little insulted.

_On the other hand…_

“Oh, so you finally broke up with William, then?” Isak asks, because it’s important to focus on the positive at a time like this.

Noora gives him an inscrutable look. “What?”

“That's great,” Isak barrels on, growing happier about this new development by the second. Maybe he and Even can _finally_ hang out at the kollektiv again without worrying about who might be lurking. “I always said he wasn’t good enough for you.”

He’s getting really excited to tell Magnus—William’s most avid detractor—about this most excellent news, when he notices Noora is looking at him like he’s grown a second head.

“Isak,” she cuts in, incredulous. “William and I didn’t break up. What the hell are you talking about?”

And...oh. _Yikes._

This is awkward.

“...oh,” Isak gulps, blinking fast and desperately searching for a way to spin this. “Right. I mean...good. You guys are so...great together. As a couple. I’ve always said that.”

_Nice save, buddy._

Judging by the irritated glare she’s sending his way, Noora does not agree. Time to change the subject, as quickly as humanly possible.

“Then why was Mahdi at yours?” he asks, because now he’s extra curious—as far as he knows, Mahdi only ever spent time at the kollektiv in the context of visiting Isak.

Noora shrugs again. “He was with Eskild.”

_Wait, what?_

“Wait, what?” Isak asks, hoping his voice doesn’t actually sound as alarmingly high-pitched to Noora as it did to his own ears. “ _Eskild?_ ” She nods. “Why? What were they doing?”

She tilts her head thoughtfully, like she’s trying to find the best way to break a piece of upsetting news. Like a doctor about to give a bad prognosis. It isn’t exactly comforting.

Finally, her face breaks into a slow, sly grin—which somehow makes Isak feel even _worse_.

“You don’t even want to know, Isak,” she says, turning around and walking away.

Um, _yes_ he does, what is she even talking about?

“Wait, what?” he exclaims at her retreating back. “ _What?_ ”

She turns around and winks.

Jesus.

 

###

 

When Isak hands the jacket to Mahdi and asks what he did that weekend, the tips of his ears actually go red. Isak has never, ever, in the entire time he’s known Mahdi, seen him _blush_.

And yeah, you know what?

Noora’s right. Isak doesn’t want to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional tag: some surprise implied Eskild/Mahdi. Which honestly shouldn't come as a surprise, if you know me at all. ;) I know this wasn't as fun in a ~sexual~ way as the last one, but Mahdi's a more wholesome bean! :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay—life got a lil crazy this weekend. But I hope you enjoy this (slightly longer) scene! My ode to the broship to end all broships. This one gets a little ~sexier~ (it's all in Isak's head, though, saucy little minx that he is), and a little heavier at the end, emotionally. Nothing bad, though! The installment after this one is going to bring the silliness back, in a big way. ;)

Isak knows that his future self will be able to look back on this moment and appreciate the irony.

Because of course this conversation would happen on the same fucking bench where Isak first told Jonas about Even. _Of course_.

He and Even had met the boys for lunch earlier, and lulled by food and sun into a state of near-giddy delight, all of them have spent the last couple of hours goofing around in the park with Mahdi’s quasi-deflated football. Well, it’s only Even and Magnus and Mahdi, now—Jonas and Isak had retreated to the bench a few minutes earlier, too full and unmotivated to keep it going.

Isak _really_ isn’t complaining—the view is pretty spectacular. Even threw his denim jacket aside a while back and is down to his oldest, flimsiest white t-shirt, which shows off just about every good feature he has (too many to count), and his pants are slung deliciously low on his slim hips.

When Mahdi playfully jostles with him in an attempt to steal the ball, Even’s shirt rides up and bares an enticing strip of pale skin, and Isak wants to just...get right up in there. He licks his lips involuntarily, before he realizes what he’s doing and internally chastises himself for being a creeper.

Except—wait. He’s Even’s boyfriend, right? Unless he’s been in a coma for the last several months and this has all been an elaborate, beautiful dream, he is, in fact, Even’s boyfriend. And with that status comes creeping privileges.

Isak doesn’t make the rules.

He and Jonas are watching Mahdi run circles around Even and Magnus—he and Isak are the only two with any real skill with a football, so it’s been less of a contest and more of a wrestling match since Isak stopped playing—when Jonas breaks the comfortable silence.

“Can I,” he starts, clearing his throat. “Can I talk to you about something?”

Isak hums in the affirmative, barely sparing Jonas a glance. He’s too busy debating whether he wants to shove Even against the wall and ravish him as soon as they get home, or make hot chocolate and cuddle the ever-loving shit out of him.

Or...both. Both is good.

“You might get mad,” Jonas says, rudely interrupting Isak’s sexy, chocolatey daydreams.

Isak scoffs, because Jonas is one of a handful of people on Earth who hardly ever make him angry. They’ve been through too much, seen each other at their absolute worst, stood by each other when others would have said “have a nice life” and fucked off. Most things seem pretty unimportant, after all that.

“Shit, bro, I’m sure I won’t.”

Jonas winces. “Don’t get mad.”

Isak can’t help but let out a disbelieving laugh. “Dude, spit it out already.”

When he looks over, Jonas actually looks sheepish, like he’s feeling unsure of himself. It’s enough to pique Isak’s interest—Jonas exudes an aura of industrial-strength chill, and it’s genuine, most of the time. But he’s more than capable of falling apart, in little ways. And it tends to be kind of intense, when he does.

“Um,” Jonas says, looking down. “So...you know I’m back with Eva.”

Isak snorts. “Uh, yeah, man,” he says, because honestly. “Pretty sure the whole city knows that. You maul each other’s faces every chance you get.”

They really, really do. A year ago, it probably would have bothered Isak. Hell, it _still_ might, since PDA is objectively gross and makes Isak feel vaguely murder-y feelings towards the world at large.

Good thing he’s now too busy mauling _Even’s_ face to give a fuck.

The little laugh Jonas gives is embarrassed, but pleased. “Yeah, uh, kinda feels like we’re making up for lost time, a little bit,” he says. “Sorry.”

Isak shrugs. “Hey, don’t worry about it,” he says. “You both deserve it.”

And he means it. He knows, objectively, that his jealous bullshit wasn’t the sole reason they broke up last year. There was cheating, and a lack of trust, and immaturity, and everything else on the laundry list of reasons Eva has since provided him—mostly during one long, drunken, late-night discussion in which they hashed out everything from that shitty time, and then offered hushed, slurred apologies to each other.

And then things had gotten deep, and Isak started talking about the vastness of the universe (his favorite topic to discuss while sloshed) and then Eva had immediately started snoring against his shoulder.

The girl produces an impressive amount of drool, he’ll say that.

But...yeah. It’s nice that they’re back together. It’s even nicer to be able to look at them both and not feel the profound, soul-ravaging, stomach-clenching guilt.

“Thanks, bro,” Jonas says, smiling a little. “I...I really want it to work, this time. I really want to try.”

Isak smiles back, because it feels good to be able to talk about this with Jonas, and not care. It feels important. “That’s great,” he says. “You both seem...good, now. Settled.”

Jonas lets out a long exhale. “Yeah, we’re happy,” he murmurs, and then he glances over at Isak, questioning. “But, um…”

Isak frowns. _Don’t be mad_ , Jonas had said.

“Yes?”

“We...I, uh...I’m having a problem,” he says, swallowing audibly. “With, um.”

_What the fuck? Is he dying?_

“With _what_?"

Jonas grimaces, and Isak is starting to feel an all-too-familiar sinking feeling in his gut.

“We haven’t…”

After a few beats of painful, embarrassed silence, Isak can’t take it anymore.

“Jesus Christ, bro, just _tell me_!”

This is the moment. This is the moment Isak will look back on, months from now, and wish he had just...not said a word.

“We haven’t had sex yet, okay?” Jonas blurts loudly, and it looks like it takes a great deal of internal strength not to clap his hand over his mouth in abject horror.

Isak gapes soundlessly, forced into stunned silence.

He can only glance heavenward and wonder... _why me?_ He’s a science-y kind of guy, but if there is a bearded man in the sky like his mother says there is, there’s no way he’s not laughing at Isak, right this very second.

Isak doesn’t blame him.

“Uhh,” he says, because Jonas is probably expecting a response that consists of something vaguely like human speech, and not wretched, animal screeching. “Hate to break it to you, bro, but you really, really have. Unless what I almost walked in on was just a really vivid nightmare.”

He shudders at the memory. He still feels a low undercurrent of nausea every time Akon comes on the radio.

Jonas rolls his eyes. “I _mean_ , we haven’t _this_ time around.”

Ah, right. That makes more sense.

“Oh,” Isak says, looking longingly at where the rest of the boys are still fucking around on the grass. He envies them, and their blessed ignorance of the conversation he’s living through right now. Must be nice. “Uh, why?” he asks, because he probably should. “Has she...not wanted to, or something?”

When he glances over, Jonas is giving him a _look_. Like he’s about to start ranting about female sexuality and empowerment, and honestly, Isak’s not sure if he can listen to that particular diatribe again. He’s very fragile right now.

Thankfully, Jonas deflates before he can get going, too wrapped up in his own problems to give it his all.

Bullet dodged.

“...no,” Jonas finally admits, and Isak looks over at him in surprise. “It’s me. I haven’t...I said we should wait.”

 _Huh._ For some reason, Isak didn’t expect that. Mostly because of the retina-searing tonsil hockey that Jonas and Eva engage in at every opportunity.

“Okaaaay,” Isak says, because hopefully this unfortunate discussion has a point. A point they can reach before the awkwardness kills him. “I mean, if you want to wait, I’m sure Eva unders—”

“But I _don’t_ want to wait!” Jonas cuts in, hands flailing. Isak blinks.

“Then why the fuck did you say you did, man?”

Jonas puts his face in his hands and lets out a truly pathetic whine. “I don’t _know_ , okay?” he groans, voice muffled. “I’m just...nervous, or something.”

Isak feels his entire face scrunch up in confusion. It can’t be particularly attractive, but luckily Even is otherwise occupied, rolling on the ground laughing after a particularly ungraceful tackle by Magnus. And Isak can’t even fully enjoy the sight.

Life is deeply, _deeply_ unfair.

“You’re nervous,” he parrots back flatly, like it will somehow make more sense a second time.

Jonas just moans pitifully in affirmation.

“I mean, no offense,” Isak starts, already hating himself for willingly participating in his own demise. “But why? You guys have done... _that_...a bunch of times, right?”

They have. He knows they have. He had to live through it, back when there was no Magnus or Mahdi or Even to keep him company while it just...happened to him.

“Yeah, but...” Jonas concedes. “But I fucked up so bad last time, and I just...want this to be different.” He lifts his head and tilts it back, sighing. “I want it to mean something. I want it to be good for her. So every time we start to...I just...can’t. I freak out.”

_Yikes._

Isak knows he’s going to regret asking almost immediately, but some evil unknown force—friendship? _ugh_ —compels him. “What are you so afraid of?”

Jonas slumps on the bench, completely defeated. As much as Isak wants to put an emphatic end to this conversation, as quickly as possible, it’s a little painful to watch.

“That there won’t be fireworks,” Jonas says, and Isak’s a little surprised at the honesty. “That it won’t be special. That I’ll look at her, y’know,  _during_ , and she’ll be somewhere...far away.”

Isak doesn’t have to ask what he means. It’s a feeling he knows well—or _knew_ well, back when he and Even first started hooking up and his sexual confidence was still hovering somewhere near the seventh circle of hell.

He turns to look Jonas in the eye, because it’s time for some real answers, here. “I’m always here for you, bro,” he says, because he is. “But why are you telling me this?”

Jonas pauses, like he’s considering his words very carefully. Finally, he sighs.

“You and Even are so fucking in love,” he groans. “It’s disgusting.”

_Um, what?_

Isak gapes.

“And more to the point,” Jonas continues, gaining steam now. “Even is always so _horny for you_.”

The fact that Isak doesn’t fall off the bench is pretty fucking amazing, but Jonas isn’t done.

“I swear, it’s like you can _see_ his thirst from space—”

“Why are you—”

“You guys are, like, in a constant state of wanting each other’s dicks—”

“—oh my _God_ —”

“And _fuck_...I’d give anything to have Eva look at me the way Even looks at you.”

His voice so small, so sad at the end, there, that Isak refrains from letting out the loud, anguished shriek he feels building in his chest.

_Et tu, Jonas?_

What the hell is he supposed to say to that? Thank you, my boyfriend _is_ awfully fond of my dick, how sweet of you to notice? Yes, I’d much rather be fucking said boyfriend at this moment than having this intensely awkward conversation with you?

Isak shakes his head, trying not to let the pain and betrayal show on his face. Jonas is still his best friend, despite this gross and borderline unforgivable violation of their broship, and he’s…hurting, right now. Or something. Isak will have to keep telling himself that, every time he feels like pulling a Forrest Gump and running far, far away from here.

“I mean…” he starts, wincing at the high, distressed pitch of his voice and doing his best to modulate it. “She _used_ to look at you like that.” Isak would know—he was there, and also jealous as fuck. “She will again. Just give it time.”

There. That can pass as legitimate advice, right?

Jonas just gives a forlorn shake of his head. “You have to help me, bro,” he says. “I’m lost here.”

Isak sighs. This can’t be his life.

“How the fuck am I supposed to _help_ you?”

Like, seriously. He knows he’s done some messed up shit in the past, but there’s no way he’s responsible for helping two of his straight friends get it on, right? Isn’t his debt to society paid by now?

When he looks over, Jonas is blushing like a goddamn schoolgirl. While it’s not as rare an occurrence for him as it is for Mahdi, Reigning King of Emotional Stability, it’s still a pretty strong indicator that wherever this ridiculous fear is coming from, it’s really eating him up.

Jonas fidgets. “Like, how do you...make it special?” he asks, his discomfort and frustration evident in equal measure. “How do you, y’know, make it _good_ for him?”

Isak is chill. He’s totally chill, and in no way craves the cold embrace of death.

“I...Jesus,” he says on a long, tortured exhale. “I don’t really... _do_ anything?”

Jonas raises one of his annoying, gargantuan eyebrows. “Sounds fun,” he says dryly, because he’s a huge asshole who Isak clearly never should have befriended in the first place.

He rolls his eyes. “Well of course I _do_ stuff, but….I don’t, like... _ugh_ ,” he groans, hating everything and everyone on Earth. “I don’t necessarily plan out ways to make it special, okay? It just...is.”

Frankly, the notion that Isak possesses the initiative to plan and execute romantic sexual encounters is laughable, and Jonas should know that. Good thing Isak’s never actually had to try. What he has with Even...it’s just that good, all on its own.

A fucking _sap_. A disgusting, pathetic sap. That’s what he’s been reduced to, now.

It’s pretty great.

Unfortunately, Jonas has apparently decided to completely ignore Isak’s bumbling attempt at deflection. “So is there, like, a ton of foreplay?” he presses, like he’s about to whip out his laptop and start taking notes. “Are guys as into it as girls are?”

Isak blanches. “Dude.”

“What?” Jonas shrugs, shooting Isak an unmistakable _the fuck?_ look. “I need details that I can actually put into practice, here.”

_Unbelievable._

“Ugh,” Isak groans, though vocal expressions of his pain have never gotten him anywhere before. “We do...that. Plenty of that.”

And that’s all Isak’s gonna say about it. If Jonas wants specifics, he can ask Magnus about all the weird shit he gets up to with Vilde. Isak kind of doubts Eva would be into the whole cat thing...but you never know. Hidden depths and all that.

 _Okay, ew_.

“Like what?” Jonas asks, oblivious.

Isak huffs, annoyed. “All the things, okay?”

Jonas throws his hands up. “You gotta give me more than tha—”

“Do you _really_ want to know all the places my tongue has been, bro?” Isak cuts in, because seriously, enough is enough. “Tread lightly.”

Some color drains from Jonas’s face at his words—and then Jonas’s eyes flit over to Even and he pales even _more_ —and Isak can’t help but feel a mild sense of sadistic glee at the sight, even though he knows he’s going to regret the outburst later. Big time.

“Uh...yeah,” Jonas says, gulping, expression drawn like he’s currently being bombarded with traumatizing mental images. _Good._ “I guess...let’s not do that.”

“ _Yeah_.”

But after a beat of silence—in which Isak gets his hopes up that his “frighten the heterosexual” strategy has succeeded—Jonas tilts his head, considering.

Isak should have known that Jonas is far too progressive to be chased off by a little bit of gay.

“So how long does....that...last?” he asks, back in research mode.

Isak scoffs. “Do you think we set a fucking _timer_?”

Jonas holds his hands up, placating. “No,” he concedes gently, like he’s arguing with a toddler, and Isak wants to pull his own hair out. Or maybe Jonas’s hair...there’s a lot more of it, after all. He wouldn’t even miss it. “But, like...ballpark.”

“ _Ugh_ ,” Isak whines, briefly contemplating if he possesses the level of stealth to successfully sneak a quick text to Even and beg him to rescue Isak from this hell. It doesn’t take long to decide that...no, he does not. Not even remotely.

“It depends, okay?” he says, since there’s apparently no way out of this. “Sometimes not that long. Sometimes we, y’know...take it slow.” He grimaces at how dumb he sounds. “Sometimes...that’s all there is.”

He knows his face is on _fire_ , and it’s not helped by the fact that his mind is now flashing with a compelling, detailed montage of every sexual encounter he’s had with Even in the past three months. Or that his dick is trying valiantly to respond to those blissful memories.

Luckily, if Jonas notices that, he doesn’t let on. If anything, he just looks confused.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

Isak swallows, plays with the fraying sleeve of his jacket. “We don’t always...go all the way, okay?” he says, face flushed so hard he’s surprised he can even feel his limbs, at this point. “There’s a lot of...stuff, you can do. Good stuff. That’s not _that_.”

 _So much good stuff_ , Isak dick supplies helpfully. _So much_.

Isak suspects he may have finally cracked.

“Well, sure,” Jonas says, brow still furrowed. “But…”

“You don’t have to do _everything_ to feel close,” Isak says, and if it comes out softer than he intends, it’s because he happens to catch a glimpse of Even smiling at Mahdi at that exact moment. No other reason. “Sometimes...sometimes it’s about focusing on the little things.”

He thinks about the week Even developed a borderline _obsession_ with Isak’s armpits—how he’d tell Isak not to shower after a workout, how he’d press wet, suckling kisses there until Isak couldn’t decide whether to giggle or gasp. The whole affair had been super fucking awkward...until it wasn’t. Until the time they were rubbing off on each other and Even groaned out _you smell so fucking good_ , and he had buried his face in the flesh of Isak’s armpit when he came.

It should have been weird. It _was_ kind of weird, objectively speaking. But it didn’t make him feel weird, not at all. Instead, it made Isak feel like every part of him was loved...like every part of him was sexy.

So...yeah. The little things can be good.

Jonas finally seems to understand what Isak’s saying, nodding thoughtfully. “So is there, like, a lot of eye contact?” he asks. “Hand-holding?”

He can’t help it—Isak drops his face into his hands. “What the fuck even _is_ this conversation?” he laments, not really to Jonas, per se. Just...to the universe.

The universe is frustratingly unresponsive.

“Be serious, man!” Jonas scolds, and Isak wants to _cuff him_. “I’m dying out there.”

Isak makes a distressed noise, not unlike a cat that’s been repeatedly poked with a stick. “I mean...sometimes, yeah. I guess?” Because, well... _duh_. Even’s eyes are beautiful. What’s he supposed to do, _not_ look into them? Please.

Jonas has the audacity to snort. “Yeah, right,” he says, smirking. “You two are so loved up, I bet every single time is a romantic, candlelight slow bone where you stare into each other’s eyes.”

It’s official: Isak’s face has been replaced with an actual tomato.

His brain decides that now is a convenient time to remind him of just two nights ago, when Even held him down roughly by the hips and let out a raspy “ _fuck my face, baby_ ,” and then proceeded to fucking _choke_ on Isak until there were _tears_ , Isak’s hands gripped painfully tight in Even’s hair as he chased his release.

So, yeah. Take _that_ , Jonas.

Or, like...don’t. Because Isak would rather swan-dive off a cliff than talk about what he and Even get up to when they decide they want it rough.

But...wait. Maybe he can, in a way. Sort of.

“Jonas,” he says slowly, testing. “You know that...it doesn’t have to be all candles and flowers and slow boning to be special, right? Anything can be special, if you’re in it together. If there’s like...trust, or whatever.”

Jonas huffs out a laugh, but it’s half-hearted. “That’s deep, bro.”

And if Jonas is going to play it off as a joke, Isak’s not going to press him any further. Especially since he already feels kind of...exposed, like a raw nerve.

He shrugs and looks away. “You asked.”

There are a few long beats of silence, and when Isak glances over, Jonas is looking at him consideringly.

“You know I’m really, really happy for you, right?” Jonas asks, out of fucking nowhere.

Isak can’t help but roll his eyes—it’s a bit of a reflex, at this point. “Shut up.”

Jonas nudges him hard, and Isak cries out and rubs his shoulder, even though it doesn’t hurt. “I’m serious!” Jonas says, smiling. “You’re good for each other.”

And, well. Isak can do nothing but nod, because he’d be the first one to admit that it’s true. Still doesn’t make this any less awkward, though.

Jonas sighs. “You know, when you guys first started dating for real, I was kinda scared.”

 _That_ gets Isak’s attention. Jonas feels more than people give him credit for, but he’s not really afraid of much. Except lobsters, for some reason—he lives in fear of a lobster grabbing his nose with its claws. Isak’s not sure when in childhood this ridiculous phobia developed, but it’s a piece of Jonas trivia he’s proud to have filed away. He may very well be the only person on Earth who knows it.

“You were scared?” he asks, because the curiosity is just too much.

“Yeah, kinda,” Jonas admits, exhaling loudly. “You were my best friend, and I was worried I was gonna lose you. That you wouldn’t hang out with me as much.”

And...wow. Isak knows that _he_ felt that way about Jonas and Eva, back in the day, but. The idea that Jonas could have possibly felt that way in return is fucking him up, a little bit.

“But I realize now what a selfish shithead I was being.”

Isak can’t let that stand. “You weren’t—”

“No, I was,” Jonas cuts in, and his tone leaves no room for argument. “Because...you weren’t happy.”

_No, I really, really wasn’t._

“...no,” Isak murmurs. Having friends like Jonas and the boys made it bearable later on, but before that...shit. You couldn’t pay him to relive it, that’s for sure.

Jonas places a hand on Isak’s shoulder. “You’re happy now, right?”

Isak doesn’t even have to think about his response before he says it, and that in and of itself is a fucking revelation. “I am,” he says, voice stronger now. “Really happy.”

He gets a small, satisfied smile and a brotherly shoulder pat in response. “Good.”

They’re quiet for at least a solid minute, after that. Just watching the sun drift lower in the sky, watching the boys abandon their makeshift game and collapse in a laughing, twitching heap on the ground, exhausted and content.

“Jonas,” Isak breaks the silence. “Just...do what feels right, okay? Be _nice_ to each other. Talk about shit. If you do that, it’ll be special, man. I promise.”

And, weirdly, it doesn’t cost him anything to say it. When you’ve been through the things they have, together...what does a little help between friends really matter, in the grand scheme of things?

“Yeah,” Jonas sighs. “You’re right. I think I...knew that, really. Guess I just let my nerves get the better of me.”

Isak elbows Jonas playfully in his side. “The fact that you’re nervous...that means it’s already special, right?”

When he looks over, Jonas is smiling softly to himself. “It is,” he says, simple and plain. “It is special.”

Even chooses that moment to look directly at Isak, smile bright— _radiant_ —on his face, and Isak can do nothing but smile back, helpless against it.

_Yup._

_Special_.

 

###

 

“—he’s never even fucking seen it! How could you not tell me that Magnus has never seen _Star Wars_ , holy shit—”

They’re walking back to their apartment at a leisurely pace, Even regaling Isak with everything he missed while he was suffering through a rollercoaster of emotions on that fucking bench.

Suddenly, Isak threads his fingers through Even’s where their hands are swinging between them, makes him stop on the sidewalk.

He swallows, looking up at Even’s sweet face, his clear eyes.

“You know I love you, right?”

He’s said it many times over the past few months—they both have—but he just...can’t not tell him, right at this moment. Can’t hold back what’s bubbling up inside him.

Even eyes go a little wide for a split second, like they always do. Like he still can’t fully believe it.

But then a slow, beautiful smile blooms on his face, and he leans in to sweep a soft kiss across Isak’s mouth. He’s still smiling when he pulls back.

Even grips Isak’s hand a little tighter in his, and starts leading them towards home.

He doesn’t say it back, this time. But he doesn’t have to.

Isak knows.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry, for so many things: 1) that this chapter took so long to write, 2) that it's so unnecessarily long, and 3) that it may not be at all coherent...I wrote the bulk of it while I was sick, so it may very well be the feverish ramblings of a crazy person. 
> 
> This is kind of a weird one (and it was even before I got sick)--but I hope you enjoy it, anyway! Shit's about to get awkward as hell up in here.

Isak may have only gotten a five in biology last year, but he knows that when an epidemic hits, one of the first steps you take to contain the damage is identifying the source of the outbreak.

Unfortunately (but rather conveniently, from an epidemiological standpoint), to find Patient Zero, Isak doesn’t need to look any further than his own bed.

And the miserable, hungover Even it contains.

Even doesn’t get drunk too often these days, says he prefers to be in control of himself, even when Isak, the boys, and everyone within a five-mile radius is shitfaced out of their minds. Not to mention the fact that he has an actual job now, with _schedules_ and _paychecks_ and _adult things_ , and is usually a little too tired to party as hard as everyone else.

Which is why no one had seen it coming, this time.

To hear Even tell it, he had chosen to indulge in a couple of beers at the end of a particularly stressful week as a treat to himself—but then a couple had quickly become _several_ couples, and then Enablers-in-Chief Elias and Mutta had added drinking games to the mix, and before he knew it, Even was fucking sloshed. Just...blackout, fall-on-your-face-in-public, start-giggling-for-no-reason sloshed.

Which is how _it_ happened.

Elias had taken the video off his Instagram a few hours earlier, probably as soon as he woke up and realized what he had done in his plastered haze...but the damage is done.

Isak can still see it clearly in his mind: _The shaky, grainy footage of Even, flushed and grinning like a fucking idiot, laughing at nothing. Would have been funny—cute, even—if he hadn’t opened his beer-loosened mouth and slurred: “Isak is the fucking_ best _at giving head,_ mhmmmmmm _.”_

_Elias barks out a delighted laugh from behind the camera. “He’s good?” he asks, managing to make even that simple phrase sound remarkably, hilariously drunk, phone slipping in his hand and making the entire frame wobble precariously._

_Even nods emphatically. “The_ best _,” he affirms, deadly serious. “In the whole world. He has the prettiest mouth, it’s so good.” He sighs, like he’s thinking about it and all the wonderful things it’s capable of doing to him. “You should try it sometime,” he gushes to Elias, eyes slightly above the camera, nodding in an extremely self-satisfied way._

 _Until, that is, his brain catches up with his mouth and his eyes go comically wide. “_ NO! _” he exclaims suddenly. “Nonononono, don’t do that. He’s mine.” When all Elias does is laugh in response, Even’s face falls into an expression of profound distress. “Elias, you can’t do it, okay?” he begs. “_ Please _don’t do it.”_

_“I won’t, I won’t,” Elias manages to assure him through his giggles, which seems to do the trick: Even’s alarm melts into a relieved smile._

_“Gonna get some of that tonight, bro?” Elias asks, and Isak is sure that if he had turned the camera around at that moment, Elias would be wearing the world’s biggest shit-eating grin. The bastard._

_But Even is_ also _a bastard, because his entire face lights up at the prospect. “Oh man, I hope so!” he says, excited, eyes darting around the room. “Isak. Where’s Isak?”_

_“He’s in the bathroom,” Elias offers helpfully, and Even smiles again, like the news that Isak’s in the same building is the best thing he’s ever heard._

_“I love him_ so much _, fuck,” he says, eyes imploring the camera to understand the magnitude of his feelings._

_Elias bursts out laughing again, and the camera shakes with the vibrations. “Yeah, we know that, man,” he says, right before he drops his phone entirely and the video cuts out with the muffled sound of it hitting the ground._

Jesus.

The resulting texts have been flooding in all morning, from every corner of his (admittedly limited) social sphere:

 **From Jonas:** _yikes bro, u okay?_

 **From Mahdi:** _boi got skillzzzzz_

 **From Magnus** : _ahahaha see i told u! SEX GURU_

 **From Eva:**   _omggg teach me your ways!!! i think i have a cucumber in the house somewhere_

Chris Berg’s message is just an entire row of eggplant emojis. Isak’s choosing to ignore that and shove it deep into the dark recesses of his mind.

 **From Sana** : _Told my idiot brother to take it down. Sorry._

 **From Eskild** : _you’ve been holding out on me, grasshopper! we should compare notes, I could use some new moves_

It’s a lot.

Understandably, Even had felt absolutely _wretched_ about it upon waking up, his regret only amplified by the sheer power and strength of his hangover. As much as Isak had desperately wanted to be angry, he just...couldn’t. Not when Even looked so sad and pitiful curled up in their sheets, forehead clammy and hair even more of a bird’s nest than usual.

Besides, he knows he’s done stupider things while wasted—some of them are probably even on video, somewhere deep in the bowels of Jonas’s phone—and it’s not like he could have known that an equally drunk Elias would share the damn thing with the world.

Also, if he’s being perfectly honest with himself (a rare thing...although less and less rare, these days)...Isak is almost a little...flattered? He knows he’s picked up some tricks since they got together, has devoted himself to learning exactly what Even likes, but...he’s gotta say, it’s pretty nice to hear that his efforts are appreciated. Even if it was in the world’s worst possible way.

When he goes back to school the following Monday, he’s actually fairly optimistic that the whole sordid ordeal will have blown over. After all, Elias is older, and didn’t even go to Nissen. What are the chances that people outside their little circle had even _seen_ the stupid video?

Pretty high, apparently.

In the past eight hours, he’s been on the receiving end of more appraising looks—and in some cases, high fives—from strangers than the rest of this life combined. He’d love to think it’s because he’s been working out, or because he’s finally reached new heights of popularity...but sadly, he knows better. They’re looking at him because they know he’s a blowjob pro.

It should feel more gratifying than it does, honestly.

He’s at the bike rack outside the school, punching in the code to the lock and thinking longingly about how awesome it’ll be to go home and forget this surreal fucking day ever happened, when he hears an all-too-familiar voice speaking behind him.

“Isak,” she says authoritatively—no greeting in her tone whatsoever.

He winces and turns around slowly, dreading this interaction before it’s even begun.

“Hi, Sara,” he says in as measured a voice as he can manage. “How are y—”

“I need you to do something for me,” she cuts in. Blunt as ever.

Isak furrows his brow, knowing in his very soul that anything Sara “needs” him to do for her can only end in his own personal pain and suffering.

“I mean...okay? What do you—”

“You need to tell me how to give head.”

_Um, WHAT?_

Isak makes a horrified, inhuman noise, fingers faltering on his bike lock. “ _Excuse me?_ ”

Sara tilts her nose up and shrugs. “I have a date this weekend,” she says matter-of-factly, like that explains fucking anything. “With a _college guy_.”

This can’t be happening. Like, really. Either he’s fallen through a wormhole into a universe in which this line of questioning is actually appropriate (a universe Isak would like to stay far, far away from), or Magnus finally got him killed and Isak currently occupies a particularly detailed hell the Devil has crafted specifically for him.

“Nonononono,” Isak mutters to himself, but Sara’s having none of it.

“ _Yes_ ,” she says, glaring daggers at him. Like he’s the one at fault, here.

Panic floods his body, and he looks around desperately for someone—anyone—to save him. But everyone else in the schoolyard is too busy leading their wonderful, Sara-free lives to spare him a glance.

Isak closes his gaping mouth. “Why would you even ask—”

“Don’t play dumb,” Sara interrupts, because apparently she’s not interested in letting him finish a sentence. “I saw the video—everyone did. So tell me.”

Perhaps it’s the trauma-induced delirium, but Isak can’t help it—he actually _laughs_. “I’d really rather not,” he says disbelievingly, shaking his head.

Sara _really_ doesn’t like that response, if the way she crosses her arms, flicks her hair back, and glowers at him is any indication. “You were my first love,” she says lightly, and Isak snorts. He knows that she doesn’t believe that for a fucking second. “And you broke my heart. Don’t you think you owe it to me to help me find love with someone else?”

Isak can’t be sure, but he thinks his resulting eye roll can be seen from the International Space Station.

“Oh, is _love_ what we’re calling it, now?”

If Isak were an insect on the ground, he’d be _so_ squished by this point.

“You have to tell me,” Sara demands, and _you know what?_ That’s the final straw.

“Uh, I don’t have to do anything, actually,” he snaps, hackles good and risen, picking up the bike lock again so he can access his ticket out of here. “Especially after the shit you pulled with Sana, who—unlike you—is an actual friend of mine. So if you’ll just let me get my bike, I’ll be on my way—”

He manages to free his bike, but just as he’s standing up to mount it, Sara grabs his arm.

“Isak,” she says quietly, face pleading. “I...you’re right. I’m sorry.”

 _Bullshit._ He raises his eyebrows to let her know just how little he believes her—specifically, an amount that can’t be measured with an electron microscope.

She rolls her eyes, frustrated. “I know I can be...kind of a bitch sometimes—” Isak snorts loudly. “—but...I’m scared.”

And...huh. That’s definitely a new one—she’s never really seemed scared of anything, not to Isak. Like, conceptually, he understands that most mean people do what they do to compensate for their own crippling insecurities...but that always seems true in the abstract. For the assholes in _his_ life? Not so much.

“You’re scared,” he repeats flatly.

At that, Sara huffs in that irritating way she does when she thinks pretending to be pissed will cover her embarrassment. “Yes, okay?” she says, exasperated. “I’ve never...done that, before.”

 _Wow_. Isak is torn between his surprise and his pressing desire to scrub his brain clean of any knowledge that bridges the mental divide between “Sara” and “sex.”

He had always assumed...well. He had assumed. He knows her mouth never came anywhere near _his_ dick, but he kinda thought that was because _he_ had taken great pains to ensure she never got the chance.

Turns out it may have been more two-sided than previously thought.

Isak gulps. “Are you sure you’re gonna…”

She raises her head, haughty once more. “No,” she says casually. “But it never hurts to be prepared.”

Isak kind of wants to tell her that he doesn’t think it would have mattered for him, even if he had taken measures to prepare ahead of time. As it was, his first time had been a (very memorable) spur-of-the-moment, jump-in-the-deep-end decision.

He’s not even exaggerating about the water part, since it had definitely taken place in the kollektiv’s shower.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” is ultimately how he responds, grasping for anything that will get him out of this. “I’m sure you don’t need me for—”

“ _Pleeeeease_ , Isak?” she begs, a little immature, even for her. “I don’t want to be humiliated, okay?”

 _Ugh._ How dare she make him feel actual feelings of _sympathy_? He isn’t obligated to help her, and she’s objectively awful—not to mention that he barely survives awkward questioning from his own friends. Who knows if he’ll live to see another day if he goes through with this?

But...still. He can’t say he doesn’t understand where she’s coming from, a tiny bit.

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “If I say that I’ll think about it, will you drop it?”

_So I have time to book the next flight to New Zealand and live out the rest of my days among the sheep? The sheep would never ask me about my sex life, I’m sure of it._

She doesn’t look happy about it, but she finally rolls her eyes, relenting. “Fine,” she says, with the air of a queen sparing a peasant from the guillotine. “Don’t take too long.”

And then she just...flounces off.

Isak just stares after her for a moment, stunned. Was that an out-of-body experience? Did he smoke some bad shit at that party? Is he about to wake up on his couch, disoriented and cotton-mouthed, to find that this was all just a cross-faded fever dream?

If only.

He snaps himself out of his horrified trance and mounts his bike. Just as he’s about to put his foot on the pedal and push off, his phone dings with a new text.

 **From Elias** : _hey isak, sorry about the video. i'm sure you saw i took it down. i hope things have been okay for you_

Isak nods to himself. For a guy who punched his lights out not too long ago, Elias is an extremely decent person.

 **To Elias** : _it’s cool. hasn’t been too bad_

Well...relatively. If he excludes the thing that just happened to him, which he’s going to do for his own sanity, until he physically can’t anymore.

 **From Elias** : _cool. hey congrats on your...abilities_

Huh. That’s...kind of weird. But Elias and his boys are an exceedingly _comfortable_ group—there aren’t many boundaries, in that squad. It’s why Even fits in with them so well.

 **To Elias** : _um, thanks? i guess. lol_

He’s not really laughing out loud, thanks, but Isak spent his entire adolescence ‘lol’-ing through the pain. He’s used to it.

There are a few beats when Elias doesn’t respond, his typing bubble absent, so Isak pockets his phone and thinks this short conversation has reached an organic conclusion.

But then his phone chimes again.

 **From Elias** : _if you have any pointers, feel free to pass them along_

Isak blinks at his phone screen for far too long.

_Um….what?_

_Is he joking? Is he messing with me? Does he actually want to know how to_ —

Finally, he just shakes his head, deciding that ignoring it is a critical act of self-care. He’s feeling far, far too fragile to deal with this right now.

He puts away his phone and takes off for home at top speed, terrified that something _else_ will ruin his life before he can hole himself up at home, safe with Even.

Isak’s definitely choosing both the movie _and_ their sexual itinerary for the evening, thanks very much. Even can just deal with it.

 

###

 

When he gets to biology the next morning, he collapses in his seat like the weight of the world is on his shoulders. Given the Sara-shaped crisis he’s facing, it’s not too far off.

Sana smirks at him. “Doing well?” she asks innocently, because she’s a minion of _evil_.

Isak just groans into his folded arms.

“Well, get it together,” Sana says, turning back to her laptop. “I’m not doing this assignment by myself.”

He chooses to ignore the snark, raising his head and shooting her a betrayed look. “What the fuck is up with your brother, anyway?” he asks, narrowing his eyes, since Sana is clearly complicit in his torture by genetic association. He received another, equally weird text from Elias last night, and he honestly has no idea what to do about it—he came very close to asking Even, but Even’s felt so terrible, so heart-breakingly remorseful, since the video incident that Isak didn’t want to bring it up again.

Sana looks at him, questioning.

“Ever since he posted that video, he keeps asking me about giving _blowj_ —”

“I really do _not_ need to know,” Sana cuts him off firmly, expression leaving no room for argument.

Isak whines, and he’d be embarrassed about it if he was capable of feeling shame anymore. “But is he just fucking with me? Or—”

Sana’s death glare shuts him right up. “What my brother does is none of my business,” she says slowly, like he’s touched in the head.

And, well...Isak has to concede that point. Despite how frustratingly casual Elias seemed about it, maybe this situation is a bit more... _delicate_ than meets the eye.

He sighs. “Well I wish he was the only one.”

She doesn’t even look at him, deeply engrossed in whatever she’s looking at on her laptop. Probably exchanging flirty, adorably wholesome Facebook messages with Yousef. Isak’s always amazed at how she can keep the straightest of faces while she writes the sappiest shit imaginable—it’s an admirable skill, really. His friends have told him on multiple occasions how fucking _dopey_ his face gets when he’s texting Even.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks, typing away. Probably debating _baby names_ , or something.

Isak groans again. “Ugh, fucking Sara of all people wants me to, like, _advise_ her on how to...you know. Can you believe that?”

Sana looks like she can’t decide whether to grimace or laugh in Isak’s face.

“Are you gonna do it?”

Isak gapes. “Of course not!” he exclaims, waving his arms around and drawing the attention of a girl a few tables over, who gives him a funny look. Isak lowers his voice—this is not a conversation the entire student body needs to hear. “Jesus, can you imagine how fucking awkward that would be?”

Sana smiles knowingly. “Because she’s your ex?”

“Ha ha,” Isak says, rolling his eyes. “No, because she’s the _worst._ ”

“She’s not _that_ bad,” she says, humming thoughtfully.

Not that bad? Not that _bad_? What kind of fucked-up alternate dimension has he stepped into, exactly?

“Are you kidding me?”

Sana closes her laptop, barely sparing Isak a glance as she reaches into her backpack to pull out their textbook. “It’s always better to help people, when you can,” she says simply, turning to the section they’ll be working from today.

Isak scoffs. “Well, _yeah,_ but...like this?” She shrugs, and he shakes his head. “I can’t believe you’re saying this, after she fucked you over like that.”

“I’ve moved on,” Sana says coolly, which is kind of weird considering that _Isak_ sure as shit hasn’t.

It’s extra annoying, because he only brought up this topic in the hopes that Sana, a fellow victim, would actually commiserate with him. He wants to air his grievances openly and with relish, thanks very much. He didn’t come here to learn valuable lessons.

“But you _hate_ Sara,” Isak says, because she _does_. As does anyone in their right mind.

Sana furrows her brow. “I don’t hate her,” she says, which is absolutely hilarious.

“Uh, yes you do.”

She opens and closes her mouth like she really wants to argue the point further, but ultimately, she relents.

“Fine, I hate her,” she sighs. _There we go_. “Whenever she opens her mouth, I get the urge to sharpen a bunch of pencils and shove them in my ears until they bleed.”

Isak snorts—Sana really does have an admirable way with words.

“You should still help her, though,” Sana continues, with an air of finality in her voice. “What do you really have to lose?”

_My pride. My dignity. My will to live._

But maybe, just maybe, if Sana can bring herself to forgive and move on and _be nice_ , when she has so much more reason to maintain her ill will...maybe he doesn’t really have a leg to stand on, here. Maybe this is one of those unfortunate times he has to just...suck it up and do the right thing.

 _Fuck_.

 

###

 

 **To Sara** : _fine, i’ll help you_

 **From Sara** : _i’m done at 15:00. Want to come over to mine?_

Actually, what Isak wants is to be in a public place with multiple, easily-accessible escape routes, if things get bad and he has to flee at a moment’s notice.

 **To Sara** : _no. bench is fine_

 **From Sara** : _ok_

 

###

 

She’s late.

He can’t believe he even agreed to do this—what on Earth was he thinking? If experience has taught him anything, it’s that Sara’s lot in life is to ensure that nothing is easy—especially for Isak—so why did he think this would be any different?

Like, he knows it was borderline fucked up to date her when he had less than zero interest in her as a person (let alone sexually, but that goes without saying at this point)...but this seems like a particularly insidious form of payback.

Isak taps his foot anxiously, limbs buzzing with the urge to sprint to emotional safety, Sana’s advice be damned. In fact, he’s about to do just that when he catches a glimpse of Sara approaching in his periphery. She looks...determined.

He really should have bolted when he had the chance.

“Isak,” she says brusquely, taking a seat next to him. He can’t even return her pseudo-greeting, he’s so terrified of what’s to come.

Only...there’s silence, for several moments. When he dares turn his head to look over at her, she’s staring at him, eyebrows raised expectantly. It’s incredibly unnerving.

“What?” Isak asks, the question landing somewhere between sassy and skittish. Sara does not look impressed.

She gestures with her hands, as if to say, “ _out with it_.”

“So...are you going to tell me, or what?” she presses when Isak shows no sign of responding.

 _Tell her_ what? _Jesus Christ._

He tries to hide his exasperation and fails miserably. “What do you want to know?”

Her dramatic eye roll suggests it should be incredibly obvious. “How you...do that,” she says, and she crosses her arms impatiently. “Can we make this quick? I’m meeting Ingrid in half an hour.”

Isak sputters indignantly. “Make this qui—do you think there’s some fucking _Harry Potter_ spell I can teach you that’ll make you good at it?”

Like, honestly. And if such a spell existed, Isak would sure as hell have tracked it down and used it by now. Alas, that’s not exactly how the process works.

Also, he never did get his Hogwarts letter. It still makes him sad.

She huffs, visibly annoyed. “ _No_ ,” she snaps. “But there’s clearly something you do that works for your boyfriend, so if you’ll just tell me what it is…”

Uh, _excuse you,_ there are a _lot_ of things he does that work for Even. Isak has devoted a considerable amount of time and energy to the development of an extensive and diverse repertoire.

“ _Ugh_ ,” Isak groans. This girl is unbelievable. “There’s no special trick, okay?” he says. “I just...I don’t know...do what feels right, I guess.”

As he expected, Sara looks most displeased—clearly that answer is not nearly definitive enough for her.

“That’s not advice, Isak,” she says, and the irritation in her voice is truly something to behold. “That’s not anything.”

He looks towards the heavens in agony, not at all fantasizing about covertly sliding off the bench and crawling to the nearest tram stop, army-style.

“Well fuck, I don’t know what to tell you!” he says. “I basically just did a bunch of stuff, saw which stuff he liked, and kept doing _that stuff_. It’s not that complicated.”

In a different life, they’d be talking about something harmless—cooking, maybe. Perhaps if he closes his eyes and wishes hard enough…

“How do you know that your guy’s gonna like the same things, anyway?” he asks, because seriously, he’s supposed to just _know_ , innately, the sexual preferences of someone he’s never even seen, let alone met? “Different guys like different things.”

Isak can really only speak for himself and Even—and Mags, a little bit, due to his unfortunate tendency to overshare—but based on the sheer volume and variety of pornographic content on the Internet that makes him want to curl up in a ball and die, he’s pretty sure that “liking different things” comes with the territory.

Sara frowns and looks away. “Are you going to say anything useful?” she asks, which— _rude_. “Or did you just agree to this so you could laugh at me?”

_Wait, what?_

Isak looks at her, alarmed. “That’s not what I—”

“Fine,” Sara cuts him off hard, waving her hand dismissively like she wants to move on as quickly as possible. “Teeth. I heard Lea say something about Julian hating it when she used teeth. Is that a thing?”

Oh _God_.

As much as the question makes him want to fling himself into the sea, he’s ultimately kind of relieved to have Sara take the lead in this conversation. Bare minimum, “yes” or “no” answers are kind of his advice-giving sweet spot.

He gulps audibly. “Uh...yeah,” he manages to croak. “That’s a thing. Don’t, uh...I would try to keep them covered.”

Actually, though it’s not really Isak’s thing, Even doesn’t always mind a bit of teeth, as long as they’re 1) applied _very_ lightly, and 2) deployed at strategic moments. It had been a heart-stopping accident that first time, but then Even’s eyes had gone wide and shocked and he had spilled in isak’s mouth very, _very_ prematurely. If Isak hadn’t been so surprised, himself, he probably would have gloated pretty hard about it.

Still...let Sara find that balance on her own. He can’t help but feel like he holds the fate of some stranger’s dick in his hands, right now.

That...came out wrong. But the point stands.

“Okay, fine, no teeth,” she says, and she sounds pleased to actually have something to work with now. “What about my hands? What am I supposed to do with them, y’know... _during?_ ” She pitches her voice lower as a gaggle of first-year girls stroll by. “I know they should be doing something.”

Isak tries valiantly to not think of the time Even had gone down on him with his hands behind his back—which had been kind of awkward, at first, until he found a _mind-bending_ rhythm and that awkwardness had dissipated into nothing.

“Uh, yeah,” he says, because thinking about that here, now, is not a fucking option. “You can use them to get at...you know. What your mouth can’t reach.” He winces hard, but if he can just spit it out all at once, this nightmare can finally come to an end. “And to like...touch him. In other places. That can...that can be good.”

He prays for the skies to open and for lightning to strike him dead. But the afternoon stays bright, blue, and cloudless. The sun’s probably _laughing at him,_ at this point.

Beside him, Sara is nodding thoughtfully. “So like...the balls, right?” she asks.

 _What the_ —

Isak coughs loudly, choking on air.

“Yeah, that...that works,” he chokes out, face on fire. All those missed opportunities to make a hasty retreat, and he just sat here, suffering like a fucking idiot, letting this _happen to him._

Sara either doesn’t notice his deeply pained expression, or she’s studiously ignoring it. “Right,” she says, like she’s ticking items off a mental list. She probably is. “So I assume you know how to deepthroat?”

“ _WHAT?_ ”

The look she gives him is positively _dripping_ in condescension, and Isak would scream at the top of his lungs if it wouldn’t result in his arrest—or at least a stern talking-to by an administrator. “C’mon, Isak,” she says. “There’s no way your boyfriend is that happy and you aren’t doing that.”

He shakes his head. “But...I just...you can’t,” he babbles uselessly. “ _Why?_ ”

Sara smirks, and Isak has somehow managed to underestimate the damage she’s capable of inflicting on his psyche. He didn’t think that was possible.

“I’m going to take that as a yes,” she says, satisfied.

As it happens, Isak _can_ , in fact, deepthroat—although it took him a good while to get there, and he can only manage it occasionally. _Even’s_ the one who, despite the fact that Isak’s dick was the first he’d gotten acquainted with, had taken to it like a duck to water. He had thrown himself into it with commendable enthusiasm, forcing his body to adapt through sheer force of will. Isak had been a bit worried on his behalf, actually...until Even assured him how much _he_ got out of it, too.

The point is: Even’s exceptionally, Olympic-level good at it, and Isak needs to stop thinking about it right now, before something bad happens.

“So how do I control my breathing?” Sara asks, snapping Isak out of his trance. He’s almost grateful for it. “I don’t want to choke and look like an idiot.”

He decides not to tell her that choking can be kind of good, sometimes—that once the split second of panic wears off and your brain catches up with what you’re doing and who you’re doing it with, that it feels kind of amazing to push yourself to the limit like that. To do whatever it takes to get your partner off.

He doesn’t think he’d be able to properly explain it. Both because it’s a bit of an abstract concept, and because he’d probably die of embarrassment on the spot.

He settles on a more practical approach. “You won’t look like an idiot, okay?” he assures her, because that’s really not how it works. “Just focus on breathing through your nose as best you can. It can...take a bit, to get used to it, but you’ll be fine.”

Sara nods slowly...but there’s something unsure about it, this time. Like her confidence has been completely shot to hell.

He knows he’ll come to regret it, but he has to ask. “What’s wrong?”

She’s quiet for a few beats, smoothing non-existent wrinkles in her shirt and refusing to make eye contact with him.

“I’m just afraid it’ll be obvious that I don’t know what I’m doing, that’s all,” she finally admits, shrugging lightly—an obvious attempt to downplay her feelings.

And, well. He can’t say he’s particularly comfortable with the turn this discussion has taken—his “relationship” with Sara wasn’t really built on emotional honesty...or any kind of honesty, really. But at the same time, a small part of him kind of...gets it. Even never made him feel shitty about anything, but that hadn’t stopped Isak from worrying about his _performance_ , all on his own.

He sighs. “I promise, if it happens, it’ll be okay.” He briefly considers putting his hand on her shoulder in a comforting gesture, before thinking better of it. They really aren’t that tight, and he doesn’t think she’d enjoy it any more than he would. “Just be, like...enthusiastic. That can go a long way.”

Isak knows that for a fact—because while he absolutely loves it when Even decides to go slow and methodical, taking him apart in tiny increments, he also loves when it’s fast and sloppy, and Even’s giving it his all to get Isak to the brink as quickly as possible, completely lost in it. It can be just as good to see how much Even’s enjoying himself, even when the technique is lacking.

Better, even.

Sara just looks curious. “How do you act enthusiastic?” she asks, tilting her head.

 _Huh._ That’s...kind of an odd question.

“Uh, act?” Isak asks, face twisted in confusion. “I don’t really know. I just... _am,_ if that makes sense?”

By the expression on Sara’s face, it does not, in fact, make sense.

“I don’t fake it, if that’s what you mean,” he adds. It feels weird to even suggest it. The idea that he’d have to _pretend_ to enjoy anything he and Even do in the bedroom is borderline unfathomable—hell, sometimes he struggles to act like he’s enjoying it _less_ , if only to make Even work for it a little more.

Sara falls silent for a moment, and she looks like the wheels in her head are turning, searching for the right words.

“How would you...fake it...if you had to, though?”

Now that, that right there, makes Isak uneasy, triggers alarm bells in his head. Maybe it’s nothing but a harmless question...but there’s something about her tone that bothers him.

He resolves to be honest. “...I wouldn’t,” he says.

Because it’s just that simple. If Even ever did anything he didn’t like, he can’t imagine not _telling him_. Showing him. Talking about it. Fuck, if the roles were reversed, and Even wasn’t totally happy with something Isak was doing...he’s not sure he’d ever forgive himself.

Sara’s eyes flit down and away, and she looks visibly distraught, now.

“If you aren’t into it, you shouldn’t pretend you are, okay?” Isak says firmly. She doesn’t seem at all convinced. “I’m _serious_. It’s not fair...to either of you, really, but mostly to you. You shouldn’t be doing anything you’re not enjoying.”

He wishes she’d push back, tell him to stop mothering her, because at least that would fall roughly in the domain of normal. But she doesn’t. She just looks...unsure. And kind of sad.

And then something clicks in Isak’s head.

He clears his throat awkwardly. “Do you...do you even want this?” he asks tentatively.

Sara just shrugs, which is all the confirmation he needs.

“Listen,” Isak says, and his tone books enough authority that Sara finally looks up at him. “If there’s any part of you that doesn’t feel ready to do it, or just...doesn’t want to...you shouldn’t. Whoever this college douche is, you don’t owe him shit.”

She bites her lip, cheeks tinged red. “Did you make Even wait?”

And...ah. Not so much, there. The epic shower incident was a pretty early landmark in their relationship timeline.

He quirks his mouth sheepishly. “I...no,” he admits. “But I wanted to do it.” _Damn, did I ever,_ he thinks, and he can’t help but smile at the memory _._ “I was nervous, but I was ready. I’ve never done anything I haven’t wanted to do, and neither has he. That’s not...how we are.”

When she nods, it’s with a hint of sadness, but it’s mostly just...relieved, and Isak knows that he’s actually doing the right thing, this time.

“Listen,” he says. “If you come back to me later and tell me that you’re ready, I’ll believe you, and I’ll answer every fucking question you have. As much as it pains me,” he adds, and Sara gives him a small smile at that. “It can be tomorrow, or two years from now, or never, I don’t give a fuck. Does that sound okay?”

She takes a moment to mull it over, but he can tell it’s mostly just for show. Sara wouldn’t be Sara if she wasn’t always searching for little ways to maintain the upper hand.

For once, it doesn’t annoy him.

She sighs, curling a lock of hair behind her ear. “Yeah,” she says at last. “That sounds...okay, I guess.”

Isak nods once, decisively. “Cool.”

The awkward silence that follows means it’s finally time to make a graceful— _who’s he kidding?_ —exit. He reaches down to gather his things, a little afraid that if he looks at her, she’ll be tempted to ask him _more_ questions, and he’s not sure he possesses the mental fortitude to handle it right now.

“Well I gotta get home, so…” he gestures stiffly in the opposite direction, standing up to leave.

“Isak?”

When he glances down at her, Sara is looking at him with a much softer expression than he’s used to. It would be kind of nice...if it wasn’t so damn _weird._

“...thanks,” she says, her smile shy and a little uncomfortable, like it feels foreign on her face.

Isak decides to throw her a bone, so he waves it away. “Don’t get sappy on me, _ex-lover,_ ” he says, grinning like an asshole.

He worries briefly that she might actually take offense at the joke, but that melts away when she huffs out a tiny laugh.

“See you later, _soulmate,_ ” she shoots back.

He salutes her with both hands and turns to leave, and he can’t even fucking believe it, but he actually feels...lighter? Maybe this is what doing the right thing feels like, all the time. He’ll have to try it more often.

 _Maybe I should text Elias, too,_ he ponders in a fit of satisfied excitement.

But…nah.

One thing at a time.

 

###

 

That night, he gives Even the blowjob to end all blowjobs, pulls out all the stops, employs every little trick in his mental encyclopedia of what Even enjoys.

Even actually blacks out, and it’s _awesome._

When he comes to, he looks at Isak with what can only be described as shocked, besotted awe.

“I...that was...how did... _holy fuck._ ”

Isak wipes his chin with the back of his hand, and grins.

Drunk Even didn’t lie. He _is_ good with his mouth.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, once again! As everyone who knows me understands...I am the worst.
> 
> This chapter deals in slightly heavier themes than the last ones—I tried to keep it light touch, but there are allusions to some of what we learned about Even in S4 (and to the fight), and I'm trying to keep this as canon compliant as possible. I don't dive into it too deeply, I promise! I'm here for the giggles, first and foremost. But just know that ahead of time. :)

Isak can’t concentrate.

He’s been nestled in the corner of KB for about an hour, determined to bang out at least half of his essay for his Norwegian class before he’s due at home for what will surely be a stilted, if well-intentioned family dinner.

Well, not _home_ home, exactly...more his mom’s house than his own, now that he’s well and truly left the nest. He supposes it can now be officially referred to as The Domicile Formerly Known as Home.

Even’s been listening to a lot of Prince, lately, so Isak refuses to be faulted for the dorky name.

He quickly checks the word count of his document, cringing in advance of what can only be disheartening news. He has functioning eyes and can see the vast, blank expanse where his essay should be, so he’s not really expecting the numbers to wow him.

And...yup. They don’t.

_Ugh._

It’s annoying, because he had actually managed to snag his favorite table today—the one by the back window, where people only wander by on their way to use the bathroom or grab a sugar packet. It’s a highly coveted spot, a rare slice of relative quiet and privacy in the sleek, open-concept hustle and bustle. The perfect location to tune the world out and get shit done.

Unfortunately, it’s also the perfect location to observe one’s extremely attractive boyfriend hard at work behind the counter.

Even’s looking extra nice today—which is probably just Isak’s traitorous mind making excuses, because Even looks nice all the time—admirably filling out that black shirt that Isak likes so much. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and his strong, veiny forearms are moving so smoothly, so expertly between tasks that Isak’s feeling borderline turned on by the picture he makes. Even’s just so...competent.

Isak wants to _lick_ him.

Right on cue, Even catches his gaze and shoots him a goofy, crosseyed look, and a startled laugh bubbles out of Isak before he can tamp it down. He tries valiantly to cover it with an eye roll, but he knows he’s been caught—a shit-eating grin spreads on Even’s face before he turns back to the espresso machine.

_Asshole._

If Isak doesn’t receive a free cookie before the afternoon is up, there will be hell to pay.

He pulls out his phone, debating whether he should send Even something stupid to see him smile, or something dirty to see him blush (Isak has developed a bit of a point system: five points for a blush, ten points for messing up an order, twenty points for dropping something, and fifty—the highest value—for dragging Isak into the supply closet and giving it to him good. That has yet to happen, but Isak refuses to give up hope).

Isak is leaning toward the dirty option—business is relatively quiet, and KB is short-staffed today so the chances of someone noticing are low—when The Madness descends.

That’s all he can think to call it, because at least three dozen crazed people in coats rush through the door almost simultaneously—like they _planned_ it, like some kind of flash mob of misery—and form a haphazard line in front of the counter.

Isak’s not sure if it’s the recent cold snap that has all of Oslo following the siren’s song of hot beverages, or if the city is now awash with hipster zombies who crave americanos instead of brains...but whatever this is, it’s fucking intense.

Poor, sweet Even is staring at the mob before him, eyes wide and terrified. He only has one other person working with him today, and it seems she just left on her break—leaving him all alone to deal with an office building’s worth of caffeine-deprived lunatics. Isak is scared _for_ him.

But after a few beats of paralyzed fear, Even squares his shoulders, takes a breath, and gets to work. Isak watches him smile warmly at the first person in line and realizes he actually feels a little... _proud?_

Ugh. He kind of wants to punch himself in the balls, now.

It’s in the midst of this inexplicable chaos that Isak spots an uncomfortably familiar face barging through the door.

Mikael is looking around, taking in the massive, unexpected crowd with a furrowed brow, his slight frame weighed down by both a large backpack and his heavy camera bag. He pushes through the throng, eyes on Even—who’s practically jogging from task to task behind the counter—and judging by his dismayed face, he’s now realized that his friend is far too busy to chat at the moment.

He falters in place, and Isak can almost hear the wheels turning in his head as he tries to figure out the best way to approach the situation. Ultimately, he seems to decide to wait out the storm, scanning the room for an open seat.

Isak’s initial instinct is to duck and hide, and he’s more than a little ashamed of it. He’s spent a good deal of time with Mikael, now—well, not really Mikael, exactly, as much as his entire squad—and it’s been fine. But he’s always with one or several of his friends, all of whom are warmer, louder, and more boisterous than Mikael seems to be, so shit never has the chance to get awkward.

It’s actually a little off-putting to see him standing there alone right now, without the whole motley crew by his side.

But since there really is no way to hide, short of diving out the window, Mikael’s eyes inevitably land on Isak. They go wide for a second, and then hesitant, and then they flit to Even again (who is currently steaming milk like his life depends on it—it very well might), and then back to Isak. And then Mikael notices that _Isak’s_ noticed _him,_ and, well.

There are a couple of empty chairs in Mikael’s vicinity, but now that they’ve seen each other...there really is no other socially acceptable choice, is there?

After a beat, in which Isak mentally steels himself for what will undoubtedly be a stunted, awkward encounter (and expects Mikael is doing the same), Mikael makes his way over to Isak’s corner table. It’s more like a slow trudge, really...Isak can almost hear a funeral dirge playing over KB’s indie acoustic playlist.

“Hi,” Mikael says, and “forced” is a kind way to describe his smile, really. Isak might even say he looks...nervous?

Isak clears his throat. “Hi,” he replies. That’s a perfectly normal response to a guy you once punched in the face, right?

Or, well... _tried_ to punch in the face. His fist had kind of...glanced off the side of Mikael’s head. It wasn’t particularly artful, or remotely effective. Luckily, Elias had jumped in and socked him right in the eye before he could get too embarrassed about it.

He was really drunk, okay?

“Waiting for Even?” Isak asks, King of the Obvious. He almost wants Mikael to say, “no, I’m just _really_ into overpriced quiches and ambient lighting,” purely for the comedy. It sounds like something Mikael might say to Even, anyway.

Sadly, he doesn’t do that with Isak—he just nods. “Yeah, uh...he has some footage for me to edit,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “You know, for our project. I said I’d swing by and pick it up.”

It should be weirder, considering that watching one of their (extremely) amateur projects had resulted in one of the first tangible moments of closeness he ever felt with Even, though Even hadn’t known about his brief—“brief”—foray into cyberstalking until much later. But Isak knows it’s what Even loves to do, and he seems thrilled to have his partner in crime back in his life, despite their checkered history.

Isak nods and tries to smile. “Well, feel free to sit down,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the seat across from him. “I was trying to work, but, uh. Not doing so well.”

The corner of Mikael’s mouth quirks up, and he scrambles to put down his heavy bags and take a seat.

“Thanks,” he says.

And then...silence.

_Oh God._

What do you say to the person you once physically assaulted, anyway? Isak’s never been in this situation before, because he’s not really the _punching_ type. He’s a lover, not a fighter.

He’s barely even a lover, really, given that most people annoy the shit out of him.

He glances over at Even—one of a select group of people who decidedly do _not_ annoy him—but he’s too engrossed in latte art to conduct a rescue mission.

Even’s biting his lip in concentration as he tries to pour with precision—and _God._ He’s so fucking cute, Isak wants to slap him. Or fuck him. It’s kind of hard to tell, sometimes.

“How are things with him?” Mikael asks suddenly, breaking Isak out of his thoughts—which is probably a good thing, because they’ve taken an alarmingly BDSM turn in the last few seconds.

Isak nods stupidly, trying to ensure those particular mental images don’t show on his face. “He’s good,” he says. “Doing well, liking the job and everything.”

Probably not today, so much, but Even _did_ decide to work with one of two types of beverage that make people go insane, so. We all have to live with our choices.

Mikael shoots him a small, reserved smile. “Cool,” he says. “And you guys are…y’know, good?”

“Uh,” Isak says, very intelligently. “Yeah, we’re good.”

They are good, as it happens. Extremely good...or at least, Isak thinks so. He thinks—hopes—that Even would agree.

After a beat, Mikael’s face gets a little serious, and he looks down at his hands. “It’s because of you, you know,” he says. “You’re good for him.”

 _Huh._ That was...just about the last thing Isak expected to come out of his mouth, actually.

Isak frowns, struggling to respond in a way that can be construed as somewhat normal.

“...we’re good for each other,” is what he goes with.

Mikael tilts his head in acknowledgement, but eyes are dim. “I, um. I haven’t always been a great friend,” he says, and he lets out a strange little chuckle—it’s something Isak’s noticed about him, how he’ll sometimes laugh at odd moments. “But I can tell he’s doing better now.”

Isak knows what Mikael’s getting at, here—he’ll never forget the things that Even told him, not long before karaoke night. He didn’t know it was physically possible to feel so many emotions simultaneously. It would have been objectively fascinating, if...you know, he hadn’t been crying like a baby at the time.

He shrugs. “The past is the past,” he says finally, because when in doubt, pivot to weak tautologies. “Even’s happy that you guys are friends again.”

That much is true, at least. As rocky as their reunion was at first, Even has definitely seemed...lighter, since it happened. What went down between them is still fresh in his mind, of course, and bad thoughts still plague him with heartbreaking frequency.

But things _are_ better, and Isak would rather saw off one of his own limbs than stand in the way of something that makes Even’s burden just a little bit less burdensome.

Mikael nods—it’s kind of unconvincing, but Isak’s not going to press him too hard. Jesus, he thought the worst possible outcome of this encounter was agonizing small talk about the weather or some shit—he definitely wasn’t prepared to _feel things._

Apparently Mikael wasn’t all that prepared, either, because a prolonged, painful silence descends, in which Isak pretends to clean his already spotless laptop screen and Mikael visibly fidgets in place, anxiously tearing apart the napkin that was on the table when Isak first sat down.

So...yeah. Maybe Isak hadn’t anticipated the subject matter, but this is about the level of awkwardness Isak expected, so he’s one for two, at least.

Just as Isak’s forming a plan to feign illness and make a run for it, Mikael decides to break the silence in the most uncomfortable way possible. Which is really saying something, given that Isak considers Magnus Fossbakken a close personal friend.

“So...you’re gay, right?” he asks, and Isak’s stomach _drops_ like a lead balloon. “Like...full-on gay?”

He can’t help it—he tenses. It’s not nearly as bad as it used to be, but the fear still catches him off guard sometimes, a completely involuntary, deer-in-headlights response. Sometimes it triggers rage, like with that asshole on his birthday, and other times—like this one—it just instantly transports his mind back to shittier times.

It doesn’t help that “full-on gay” is a little too reminiscent of certain unfortunate comments he made to Eskild, back in the day.

“Um,” Isak says, “Yeah? I guess.”

Mikael’s dark eyes are fixed on him, but his frenetic foot-tapping gives away that there’s more swirling underneath the surface. “You don’t like girls at all?”

Isak opens his mouth like he wants to respond verbally, but he ultimately just shakes his head, utterly confused. One more subtle glance at Even shows that while he now has things mostly under control, he won’t be able to step in and save Isak any time soon.

Two cookies. At _least._

Mikael nods once, perfunctory, like Isak’s bumbling response confirmed what he already knew.

He lets out a long, slow breath and looks down at his lap.

“How did…” he starts, swallowing audibly. “How did you know?”

_What the...huh. That’s...interesting._

He tries desperately not to let his surprise show on his face. “That I’m…?” he asks, mostly to buy himself some time to get it together.

Mikael nods again, a smaller one this time.

 _I could have just worked at home,_ Isak thinks wistfully. He’s starting to think that leaving the house at all is a terrible idea—could he learn to embrace life as a shut-in? As long as his friends visit occasionally and Even’s there to keep him company and bring him food and have sex with him, he thinks he could swing it.

“I, uh,” he says, stumbling over his words because he didn’t expect to have to recount one of the toughest periods of his life at a KB on a Thursday afternoon. “It was...slow. There wasn’t, like, one big moment when I realized it. Or, like, maybe there would have been, if I had let it happen.”

Looking back, it’s kind of easy to see that his brain had been trying to induce that big epiphany moment for months, maybe even years. But he had just...refused to acknowledge it, pushed it all down before it could really gain steam.

Mikael is quiet, so Isak keeps on babbling to fill the silence. “I think I maybe always knew,” he continues, voice pitched low, even though there are no strangers within earshot. “It had been kinda...hanging out in the back of my mind for a long time. I just didn’t want to think about it, or, y’know. Consider what it meant for me.”

He has the sinking feeling that none of that made any fucking sense whatsoever, and Mikael’s continued silence isn’t exactly encouraging. When he looks up, Mikael’s gaze is directed out the window, his mouth twisted in a frown.

Isak coughs. “Why do...why do you ask?” he presses, just a little. Even though he thinks he knows, already. He wouldn’t say it’s like looking into a mirror—mostly because they don’t exactly look alike—but Mikael’s behavior is...eerily familiar.

The dude in question looks deeply, deeply uncomfortable now, shoulders rigid and tight like he could pick up and flee at any moment, Even’s footage be damned. Isak fights the silence, though, resisting his many urges to laugh it off and change the subject. It’s what he would have done six months ago, anyway.

But a lot has changed in six months.

“I think…” Mikael starts, biting his lip and looking down. “I think I might…”

It’s not the full-bodied confession it could have been, but it’s plenty. And now that it’s in the open, Isak...doesn’t really know how to feel.

Like, obviously, he wants be nice and supportive and show solidarity, and all that crap. Eskild would never forgive him if he didn’t. Isak would never forgive _himself_ if he didn’t.

At the same time...he can’t help but think of Even. Even, and everything he endured, and all those awful, world-upending things he told Isak that night. _How many of those things could have been avoided, if…?_

But it’s probably not wise to go down that route, though, is it? There’s nothing to be done about it now.

 _Sigh._ No one ever tells you that being a good person is so _tiring._

“Okay,” Isak says, because this is a delicate situation and any more silence could do irreparable harm. “Okay, that’s...great. Really great.”

And, hey—it _is_ pretty great. As much as Isak fought his feelings every step of the way, turns out being gay is fucking _awesome._ Like, ten out of ten, would recommend.

 _It’s not that way for everyone, though,_ he reminds himself, taking in Mikael’s pained face. Isak knows he’s luckier than most.

But even though he’s determined to be nice, he still needs to know something.

“But, uh, Even said…” he asks, deliberately trailing off there. Mikael grimaces.

“Uh, yeah, I was…” he mumbles, refusing to meet Isak’s gaze. “I was going through some stuff.”

Isak gets that, he _really_ does, but he feels his hackles rise before he can stop them.

“Yeah, well, so was he,” he says, and it comes out meaner than he intended. The sharp way Mikael winces in response is more than enough to flood Isak with shame at his outburst.

“I know,” Mikael says softly, and lets out a harsh, labored breath. “I think I..might have, uh…”

He falls silent, though, and Isak is more than a little confused. He’s about to ask for an explanation, when he catches Mikael’s sad eyes shifting from the table over to Even, who’s wiping up some spilled syrup across the room.

And suddenly, Isak gets it.

I might have... _returned his feelings._ That’s what Mikael was trying to say.

_Whoa._

Isak attempts to wrap his head around this new revelation. On the one hand... _relatable._ Isak still doesn’t really understand how anyone who knows Even could resist falling for the guy...fuck, Isak’s not sure how strangers on the _street_ can resist it. That face...that face is very powerful, and he knows that firsthand.

On the other hand...that face belongs to _Isak._ And yes, that makes him a fucking caveman, and yes, he hates himself for it a little bit (a lot), and _yes,_ at the end of the day he knows Even loves him and he has absolutely nothing to worry about, but.

But.

He’s flawed, okay? He was flawed before, and sadly, he didn’t magically become unflawed when he started dating a dude. Although Isak will admit that if anyone could have made that possible, it would have been Even.

Surprisingly, Mikael seems to actually pick up on Isak’s inner turmoil. It’s possible that it’s because Isak is currently wearing what Jonas calls his resting murder face, but he’s not going to think about it.

“Don’t worry,” Mikael says, and there’s actually a hint of a smile there. “I don’t...that’s not a thing, anymore. I would never...”

 _He better not,_ is what Isak thinks immediately, before he has the chance to muffle his inner monologue with a pillow. Now is not the time.

“Oh, yeah, I know that,” Isak says, aiming for casual and missing by about three thousand miles. “Totally.”

Thank God for small favors, though. Isak’s really not cut out to participate in a duel, if it ever came to that. As his pathetic attempt at punching Mikael had displayed—rather publicly—Isak lacks both the disposition and the physical coordination to successfully engage in fisticuffs.

After a beat, Mikael asks, “You’re not going to tell anyone, are you?” His eyes flit over to Even again, and even though Isak wishes he _would_ tell Even, because Even is lovely and would never be anything less than accepting in a million years, he understands why that would be tough right now.

He’ll get there, eventually. Even is very talented at busting through people’s defenses, without even trying.

“No,” Isak says. “No, of course not.”

Mikael looks down, embarrassed. “I don’t think I’m ready for, like...the entire world to know.”

And hey, Isak can respect that. If he hadn’t been more or less outed by a certain pixie-haired first year (last seen with Chris Schistad’s tongue down her throat), and he wasn’t disgustingly, smugly in love with the most attractive dude in the galaxy, he’d probably only be out to close friends and family, still.

He holds his hands up in a placating gesture. “Sure, man,” he says, and Mikael sags in relief, just a little. “Totally your call.”

Then it’s like the gravity of the conversation finally hits him like a ton of bricks—like, _holy shit,_ someone just _came out_ to him. And he didn’t even fuck it up too badly! After everything that Eskild did for him in his time of need, being there for a burgeoning member of the club kind of feels like the gay man’s equivalent of paying it forward.

It’s not a bad feeling, really.

“Listen, bro, the fact that you managed to come out to _me,_ who you barely know, shows that you’ll be fine,” he says, buoyed by this realization.

Mikael shoots him a self-deprecating half smile. “Thanks,” he says—and though it’s a little wry, Isak can still tell he means it, somehow. “But I think the fact that we aren’t tight is, uh...probably why I did it.”

And that _..._ makes a lot of sense, actually, yeah. If Eskild hadn’t found Isak in that club and whisked him away to his basement hideout, he can imagine that several of those shiny, sparkling drag queens he vaguely remembers holding court by the bar would have known all about his then-feelings for Jonas before the night was up. Sometimes it’s just...easier to let go, when there’s nothing on the line.

Isak takes a second to look at Mikael, then—like, _really_ look at him. He’s loathe to admit it, but the guy is fairly stunning, with the deep, soulful eyes and the thick hair and the crooked grin. He’d feel weird about it, considering Even was into Mikael for some period of time and Isak’s own looks are radically different, but, well. Last he checked, Even didn’t have dark, curly hair and eyebrows the size of throw rugs, either.

But Isak sees a lot of himself in the quiet, withdrawn manner in which Mikael pulls back from the crowd sometimes, present, but not fully engaged. In the way his face shutters off in larger groups, the way he tends to laugh without mirth. Maybe Isak’s just projecting, but…

Maybe he knows more about Mikael than he thought.

After a beat, Isak clears his throat. “I really am sorry for punching you,” he says, because it’s the easiest thing to say, at this particular moment.

Mikael gives him a real smile, at that, and there’s a glint in his eye that wasn’t there before. “It’s fine,” he says, shrugging. “It wasn’t too bad.”

Okay, the dude is definitely ragging on him now. Isak feels his face flush, and he tries to get outraged, he really does...but even _he_ can’t muster the indignation to defend that pathetic display, so he finally deflates and huffs out a sheepish laugh.

It’s what the worst punch attempt in human history deserves, really.

“I’m kind of glad you did,” Mikael continues quietly. “Would never have started talking to him again if you hadn’t.” He doesn’t say Even’s name, but he might as well have, that’s how loud it rings in Isak’s ears.

But it’s not like Isak’s going to accept praise for behaving like a drunk, raging douchebag—he’s not that vain, thanks, _Eva_ —so he does his best to shrug it off. He’s fairly sure that Even and his friends would have found each other again, without his “help.”

Mikael lifts his head and gives Isak a rare moment of eye contact, suddenly solemn again.

“Are you...happy you did it?” he asks. He doesn’t say what “it” is, but Isak knows.

This answer, at least, is pretty easy for him.

“Yeah,” he says, and he can’t keep his own eyes from flickering over to Even, can’t keep the corners of his mouth from quirking up. “Really happy.”

Mikael frowns. “Aren’t people dicks to you?”

 _People are dicks, period,_ is what Isak would probably have said, not long ago. But he can still hear the faint echo of _get a room, fags_ in the back of his mind—it’s not a big deal in the grand scheme of the universe, but it’ll leave a mark, same as anything.

“Sometimes,” is what Isak offers instead. “But it’s worth it, because I have him.” Even chooses that exact moment to smile radiantly at an elderly woman at the counter, and Isak’s heart gives a violent lurch. “I have my friends. That’s all I need.”

That he’s a work in progress in that area is a massive understatement. But it’s more and more true every day.

Isak sees Mikael shaking his head in his periphery. “I can’t imagine not caring what people think like that,” Mikael says.

Isak can’t help but feel a pang, because before Even, that mindset was home to him. Back then, he couldn’t see an end to it. Couldn’t see any light—only dark, dark tunnel.

He’s not out of the tunnel yet, he doesn’t think. But the light? Yeah, he can definitely see it now.

“I do care,” he says. “I fight it all the fucking time, bro. It’s just...easier, now. Because I know what the alternative is, and it’s lonely as shit.”

Judging by Mikael’s expression, he agrees.

“It doesn’t hurt that I found the right person, y’know?” Isak adds. “That’s always gonna win. Every time.”

Oddly— _intriguingly_ —Mikael seems to grow flustered at that last part, cheeks tinged a charming pink.

Well, _that’s_ interesting.

Isak smirks at him, more than happy to pivot to something a little more playful. “Is there a...particular guy, then?” Friendly ribbing—now _this_ he can do with the best of them. He expects Mikael to do what he would do...blush, smile, maybe even change the subject.

What he does is _much_ stranger.

His eyes grow wide and panicked and he downright _fidgets_ in place, cagey and awkward.

“Uh...yes,” he says, and wow, Isak really didn’t expect a direct confirmation. “One guy. Right. Just....just the one.”

_The fuck?_

_Yeah, so_ that’s _not weird at all,_ Isak thinks, brow furrowed in confusion. But Mikael looks so spooked, so uncomfortable, he decides he’s not going to push his luck.

When he looks over at the counter, he’s surprised to find that the bedlam has all but disappeared, the room returned to the peaceful state Isak had been enjoying before the swarm of hipsters descended and ruined it all. Even looks like he just crossed the finish line of a marathon, forehead shiny with sweat, hair a mess, apron a disaster.

Isak is so into him, it’s fucking _nuts._

Mikael exhales slowly and drums the table with an air of finality. “Looks like he’s finally free,” he says, and Isak nods. “Uh...thanks, man. For being cool.”

He’s nervous again, like he’s worried that Isak might decide to announce Mikael’s deepest secret through a bullhorn on the street after he leaves.

So Isak shoots him the biggest, most genuine smile he can muster, and says, “Don’t worry about it, bro. You’re gonna be fine.”

Mikael smiles back, gathering his things and scurrying off before another wave of coffee snobs can interfere. Even looks pleased when he sees Mikael approaching, offering a big grin and a fist bump.

As Mikael rummages through his backpack for something, Even takes a second to catch Isak’s eye.

 _You okay?_ he mouths.

He’s all the way across the room, but Isak can feel his warmth like he’s right beside him.

 _Okay_ , he mouths back.

 

###

 

As he watches Mikael give one last wave and leave KB, Isak pulls out his phone.

 **To Eskild:** _you’re pretty awesome, guru_

The reply is quick, and _exceedingly_ typical.

 **From Eskild** : _omg are you okay??? did you hit your head???_

Isak rolls his eyes.

 **To Eskild:** _oh shut up_

 **From Eskild:** _where are you? i’m coming over to check for signs of a concussion_

Eskild always exacts a price for being nice—usually in the form of merciless teasing. Isak supposes it could be worse.

 **To Eskild:** _can you just accept the compliment, asshole?_

 **From Eskild:** _i’m flattered, babe. what brought this on?_

Isak thinks about their first meeting, which he _might_ remember a little better than he’s ever admitted to Eskild. How patient and kind Eskild was, how he met Isak’s loud, panicked protests with nothing but compassion, even if he didn’t quite understand.

He understood the important things.

 **To Eskild:** _i dunno. just feel like i don’t tell you enough_

The typing bubble hovers for a long time after that—long enough that Isak’s starting to worry that he’s in for a massive dragging and that he’ll live to regret ever bringing this up in the first place.

But when Eskild’s message finally comes through, Isak smiles.

 **From Eskild:** _thank you, isak. you’re not so bad yourself <3_


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this is so late, holy shit. I needed some time to recharge my writing batteries for this fic, and then I was distracted by something shiny (aka SKAM Fic Week), and then work got crazy, and...yeah. Bottom line: I suck. I wouldn't be surprised if no one remembers this fic exists, lol.
> 
> I'd say I can't believe it's over, but this fic was so overdue anyway, it's almost a crime that it's taken this long, tbh. But I really, REALLY hope you enjoy this final installment! It was fun to revisit all of Isak's awkward conversations in some way. ;) There's one tag I won't add above because it's kind of spoilery, so I'll include it at the end. 
> 
> Thank you so much for all the lovely comments throughout, you amazing people! This series was my introduction to this fandom, and your support has meant the world to me. <3

Isak should have known this night was cursed the exact second he realized he was wearing the shirt he spilled pasta sauce on last week. To a _blacklight party._

Like, seriously. The front of his button-down looks like a fucking crime scene—or possibly a well-used porno set. Whichever metaphor is more horrific. Eskild had given him the world’s most pitying look when he and Even had arrived at the kollektiv—that “puppy peed on the rug because it doesn’t know any better” expression that Isak became well acquainted with during his tenure as Eskild’s roommate.

Despite Even’s murmured words of comfort (even if he did look like he wanted to laugh, the fucking fucker), the humiliation had been extremely real.

Luckily, alcohol exists.

Which is why Isak currently gives zero fucks about his stained shirt. He currently gives zero fucks about _anything,_ really, except the feel of Even’s lips grazing his neck and Even’s hands on his ass.

Fine, so he’s a little bit tipsy. Or maybe a lot tipsy, because grinding hard with Even is something he only does publicly when he’s reached a certain magical blood alcohol level that takes his shame and punts it out the window. Even—exhibitionist asshole that he is—generally does not share his reservations, but he also never really complains about Isak’s.

But he’s certainly not complaining about having Isak draped all over him now, either.

It’s well known that Isak can’t dance for shit, but to be fair, there is no authority on Earth that would categorize what they’re doing right now as dancing. One of his hands is currently fisted in Even’s shirt underneath his denim jacket, and the other has migrated around Even’s narrow waist, fingers teasing the elastic of Even’s underwear—which is, as usual, peeking teasingly above the top of his khakis. For his part, Even is about half as drunk as Isak but twice as clingy, arms looped around Isak’s hips and palms spread wide over the back pockets of Isak’s jeans.

Even chooses that moment to brush his tongue against Isak’s pulse point, because he’s a _dick._ Isak lolls his head back to give him more room to bury his face there, all plump lips and hot breath and grazing teeth. Oh _man,_ it’s pretty awesome. Isak would do this all night, if Even let him.

Well, maybe not. Because their hips start to gyrate harder—not really to the beat of whatever bass-heavy song Eskild is playing, not anymore, but to some deep-seated internal rhythm that has them rubbing against each other with increasing fervency. _God,_ this is good, this is the fucking _best,_ and Isak understands vaguely that their friends are all around them and things are growing more and more indecent—and super, super gay—but the heat is building at the base of his spine and his whole body is tingling, and Even is right there with him, warm and alive and sexy and perfect, Even is fucking _everywhere_ and all around him, so who gives a blistered fuck what they think, fuck them all, _let them look—_

“Isak!”

An excited voice shouts it from right behind him, and while Isak's not a particularly violent guy—mostly because he’s not skilled at fighting and he very much enjoys having four fully functioning limbs—he’s about eighty percent sure that he’s going to fucking murder whoever it came from.

He’s always wondered...like, hypothetically, is he capable of actually killing someone, if the situation demanded it? He’s run through dozens of scenarios and mental simulations, and he’s concluded time and time again that: no, he couldn’t.

Boy, was he wrong.

He stiffens in Even’s arms, but Even is still lost at sea in his own little world, happily sucking on Isak’s neck like a lamprey and blissfully unaware that they’ve just been rudely interrupted. Isak turns his head to get a better look at the egregious betrayer responsible for this, but Even’s mouth just follows him, refusing to detach.

The egregious betrayer is Magnus, apparently. Because of course it is.

His face doesn’t even fall in the slightest at Isak’s stormy expression. He just grins like an idiot, his whole face fucking lit from within. Isak kind of wants to knee him in the groin.

That would wipe the grin off his face, real quick.

“What the hell do you want?” Isak snaps. He’s doing his best to sound as pissed off as he possibly can, but Even’s got Isak’s earlobe in his mouth now, so the question comes out as more of a whine.

Magnus seems completely unperturbed, carrying on as if Even’s not even there. “We did it!” he exclaims, hands waving wildly. Like that’s supposed to mean something.

Even pushes close again and his hard-on brushes against Isak’s hip through their clothes, so Isak has to take the painful, dick-wilting step of gently pushing Even off him, because he can’t keep doing this in front of Mags. Too much self-awareness has been given the opportunity to creep back in.

Isak catches Even’s pout from the corner of his eye, but Even doesn’t miss a beat, wrapping himself around Isak from behind and pressing his forehead into Isak’s hair. He gets like this, sometimes—and it has absolutely nothing to do with alcohol, or weed, or his meds, or anything like that. It’s just _him._ He just...loses himself in Isak, in these moments, clutches him tighter and breathes him in deep with single-minded focus, and it can take an awful lot to pry him away.

Isak _loves_ it, he really does. He wishes he could indulge it right now, actually, but...Magnus.

_Ugh._

“Who did what?” Isak asks, trying not to shiver at the way Even is stroking his long fingers over his abdomen, under his t-shirt.

Magnus beams. “Me and Vilde did anal!”

Isak gapes.

_Jesus fucking Christ. Did he—_

“Bu...I... _what?_ ” he sputters, his lust-fogged mind barely even able to comprehend what he just heard.

He gets an elated smile in return, but that kind of makes it worse.

“Anal!” Magnus says, eyebrows raised like it should be obvious. “Remember? Like we talked about?”

 _Oh God,_ Isak thinks, memory rushing back to him. He had almost managed to repress it entirely.

He gulps, feeling squirmy for reasons other than Even’s breath tickling his nape. “Uh, right,” he says. Totally zen. Maybe if he pretends hard enough that the exchange in question hadn’t been profoundly traumatizing, it will cease to be a lie. “Good for you?”

“Thanks!” Magnus says, smiling even bigger. “Turns out Vilde didn’t like it much, though.”

And...huh. That’s kind of unexpected, given just how utterly _jubilant_ Magnus has looked since this conversation began. And also: why is this conversation happening, again?

“Oh,” Isak says, frowning. “I’m...sorry, I guess?” Is the proffering of condolences appropriate here?

Magnus’s eyes grow wide. “No, it’s cool!” he shouts over the music, his enthusiasm extremely off-putting when Isak is still at half-chub. “She tried it on me and it was awesome!”

Hold up.

_WHAT?_

Isak’s mouth drops open, his brain somehow managing to go completely blank and swirl with upsetting images all at once.

It’s official: he needs reinforcements. Isak clears his throat loudly, hoping it will snap Even out of his sex trance—but Even just grunts and nuzzles closer. At this point, there’s about a fifty percent chance it’s an act to get out of dealing with Magnus, and Isak can’t even be mad about it. He respects the game too much.

“You mean...she…” Isak starts, after several moments of horrified gawking. God knows why, because he’s fairly certain he knows exactly what... _that_...entails. When most of the porn you seek out involves one party getting fucked in the ass, you _see things._ The dangers of the Internet are vast.

Magnus barks out one of his weird, high-pitched laughs, clearly eager to share because he was, quite tragically, born without the ability to take the temperature of a room. “Yeah, bro!” he says. “Why didn’t you tell me how fucking great it is? You held out on me!”

Isak...honestly has no words.

“Or, wait,” Magnus continues, still very much vying for the title of Most Oblivious. “Was _Even_ the one holding out on me?” He narrows his eyes suspiciously.

_Not this again._

“Magnus,” Isak says, a warning. A weak one, given just how much Even’s proximity is fucking with his capacity to think straight—hah, _straight—_ but a warning all the same.

But instead of pressing the issue, Magnus just shrugs it off, like being penetrated was somehow the key to his enlightenment. _Unbelievable._

“Anyway,” he starts, his expression turned heart-wrenchingly earnest, given the conversation topic. “Just wanted to thank you, man. Her fingers really helped.”

_Ew._

“Please stop talking,” Isak implores, though it’s half-hearted at best. Magnus just looks so... _happy_ about this, and Isak doesn’t have much of a heart to rain on his anal parade.

Magnus’s enthusiasm is too powerful to be dampened, anyway. Case in point: he actually chooses that moment to launch himself forward and wrap Isak in a bear hug—which is extra awkward, given that Even’s still right there. It ends up being more of a weirdly intimate threeway embrace, with Isak as the meat in the sandwich.

And...okay. It was definitely an unfortunate mistake to think of himself as “meat” in this situation.

Magnus scampers off—probably to regale some hapless stranger about the wonders of pegging—and leaves Isak and Even alone once again.

“Is he gone?” Even mumbles into Isak’s shoulder. _Aha!_

Isak scoffs. “I knew it,” he says, elbowing Even lightly. “I can’t believe you left me on my own to deal with that, you _asshole._ ”

He feels Even grin against him. “I thought me being here would scare him away,” he admits, and it sounds like he knows full well that plan was doomed to fail. “But you feel really good, so I just...went with it.”

He’s heard Even say much, much worse, but it still makes Isak flush all over, dick perking up like it’s remembering exactly what they had been up to before Magnus crashed their party.

But...no. After his little game of sexual possum, Even’s going to have to work for it.

“Well, you can _feel_ me later,” Isak snipes, shrugging out of Even’s grasp. He feels uncomfortably bereft after spending so much time with Even plastered to his back, but he powers through the loss. “You owe me a drink, buddy.”

Even just smiles knowingly, turning Isak around to face him and leaning in close.

“So you’re confirming that there _will_ be feeling later?” he murmurs, and he probably thinks that if he makes Isak flustered enough, he’ll relent. He’s probably right.

But Isak’s perfectly willing to play dirty, too.

“Mm,” he hums, pressing their foreheads together. “Get me a beer and we can talk about it.” He ducks in to press a kiss to Even’s lips, deepening it just long enough to swipe his tongue into his mouth, before pulling back abruptly and grinning at Even’s dazed expression.

He reaches around to smack Even on the ass with a loud _thwack._ “Get moving,” he says, smirking.

The suddenness of it makes Even bark out a surprised laugh, eyes crinkling handsomely at the corners—such a disgustingly _lovely_ sight, it makes Isak regret playing hard-to-get, just a little.

When Even finally starts making his way towards the kitchen and the beer it contains, Isak collapses in a heap on the sofa, instinctively covering his lap with one of Noora’s decorative throw pillows. His erection hasn’t completely flagged, which would be embarrassing, but...well. Everything about Even is a potent aphrodisiac, so it’s not like Isak’s dick stands a chance at the best of times.

Isak is running through a number of mental exercises to calm it down when he catches sight of Mahdi, who’s sitting on the floor in a corner across the room. Eskild is sitting next to him, his side pressed flush against Mahdi’s, his bare legs—he’s wearing a fascinating short-shorts and tube socks ensemble this evening—thrown across Mahdi’s lap.

_God._

Isak’s not sure if he’ll ever get used to seeing shit like that. Witnessing two of Isak’s worlds collide in such a significant way is just so fucking _weird_ , like seeing a teacher at the grocery store _._ Like watching one of those "turtle befriends a cat" videos.

But Mahdi looks tentatively pleased with the whole situation, his smile small and genuine, his hand resting lightly on Eskild’s knee while the dude in question rambles a mile a minute to Chris Berg about something. They seem very...comfortable.

It’s actually kind of nice. Somehow.

Mahdi looks up, then, and Isak can tell the exact moment he notices that Isak’s been staring because he looks momentarily panicked, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t...and that’s kind of fucked up, really.

Isak resolves to fix it.

Unfortunately, the best he can come up with is giving Mahdi his highest-megawatt smile and a thumbs up, because he’s incredibly lame and still kind of drunk.

It seems to do the trick, though, because Mahdi grins back and looks down, like he’s shy all of a sudden. _Jesus._ Bashful and soppy Mahdi is honestly weirder and more off-putting than the fact that he and Eskild fuck on a semi-regular basis.

Isak can’t help but scan the rest of the room and he sees Mikael standing not too far away, surrounded by much of the usual crowd. Elias’s arm is slung casually over Mikael’s shoulders as they engage in a loud and spirited debate with Adam and Mutta about...something about football teams? Isak can’t quite catch the specifics.

He can’t say for sure, but he thinks Mikael looks a little happier than normal. More buoyant. Like his smile is coming to him a little easier tonight.

 _I wonder if he told someone,_ Isak thinks, not for the first time since their awkward conversation at KB. He’s thought about that conversation a lot in the intervening days, actually. _I hope he told—_

“Bro!” comes Jonas’s cheerful voice from above him, snapping him out of his thoughts. “What’s up?”

Jonas drops down beside Isak on the couch, reaching over to playfully ruffle his hair—which he knows Isak _hates,_ so Isak doesn’t feel a shred of remorse when he slaps Jonas’s hand away with greater force than absolutely necessary.

“Nothing,” Isak replies casually, extremely satisfied when Jonas winces at the sting.

But he recovers quickly, smirking like the secret asshole that only Isak knows he is. “I’m surprised you haven’t disappeared into your old room with Even,” he says, waggling his eyebrows. Because: _secret asshole._ “Since you were practically fucking out here a few minutes ago.”

Isak feels his face heat up. There’s no way that his blush is visible in the dark of the black-lit room, but he’s sure Jonas knows it’s there, anyway—it’s probably at least sixty percent of the reason Jonas even said it in the first place.

“We weren’t,” Isak huffs, reflexively defaulting to indignation because he has an image to maintain.

Jonas raises an eyebrow— _or a small, hibernating woodland creature,_ Isak thinks petulantly, because as Jonas’s best friend, being a dick about stuff like that is Isak’s birthright. Not to mention he once found those woodland creatures very appealing, for some reason, so there’s not much heat behind the insult.

“Then why is there a pillow in your lap?” Jonas asks.

_Whoops._

Isak scoffs, opens and closes his mouth a few times. “This is just how I _sit,_ okay?”

“Take the pillow off, then.”

Why did Isak call him a _secret_ asshole, again? Jonas isn’t exactly taking great pains to hide it tonight.

Isak lifts his nose in the air and shrugs casually, ignoring the burning sensation in his cheeks. “I don’t feel like it,” he says haughtily, and Jonas cracks up.

Thankfully, he decides to drop the subject when his giggles die down, and they fall into a comfortable, companionable silence. Isak’s dick is especially grateful to no longer be the center of attention—mostly because it knows that it will get its time to shine later this evening, when he and Even get home.

“We’re gonna do it tonight, I think,” Jonas says out of the blue—which is good, because Isak’s starting to find his mental anthropomorphization of his own dick a little disturbing.

Isak hums noncommittally, catching sight of Even wrapped up in a conversation with Vilde across the room. Isak wants to be irked—he really did want that beer—but Even is _smiling_ with his _face_ and Isak is powerless to do much more than appreciate the view.

“Gonna do what?” he asks.

Jonas exhales loudly, like he’s nervous. “Me and Eva.”

And…oh. _Oh._ Right. That whole...thing. The sex thing.

“Oh, uh...cool,” Isak says, the closest to a non-awkward, socially acceptable response he can offer at the moment. “That’s great, bro.”

He doesn’t exactly need the torrent of mental images that accompany the subject matter, but if Jonas is happy about it...it’s not really that hard to shrug them off, at the end of the day.

And Jonas _does_ look pleased, too, if a little bashful. Isak still finds that particular expression of his irredeemably cute, even if he feels it in a different way, now. “Yeah, it’s gonna be good,” Jonas says. He sounds like he means it. Like he’s ready, like he’s resolved to _make_ it good, no matter what.

Isak elbows him in the side. “Going for a romantic candlelight slow bone?” he asks. He _was_ going to wait a little longer to get Jonas back for the pillow remark...but this works, too.

Never let it be said that Isak can’t also be a secret asshole, when he puts his mind to it.

Jonas snorts and shoves him right back. “Nah, man,” he says. “Or...I don’t know. I think we’re just gonna...do what feels right, y’know?”

Isak lets his gaze drift back to Even, who’s leaning into Vilde’s space to hear her over the noise, expression sweet and kind and open and patient. He’s so… _good._ Everything about him is good. Everything about what they are together, what they’ve _built_ together…

Just...yeah. Good.

The best.

It coalesces in his mind, then, simple and plain: _everything feels right, because_ they’re _right._

He’s too drunk and tired to chastise himself for his transformation into a lovelorn sap, yet again. And really...what’s the point?

“Yeah, I know,” he murmurs, a strange peace settling over him. He gives Jonas a hearty, brotherly slap on the knee. “Well, I’m happy for you, bro.”

He expects Jonas to keep things light and move on, but when he looks over at him, his eyes are serious. “I know you are,” he says quietly, his features soft, his words heavy in the air between them.

Isak doesn’t exactly know why (or maybe he does), but it feels momentous. Like an acknowledgement of...something. Something they never quite hashed out.

He can’t really bring himself to say anything back—he’s oddly choked up, which is made doubly weird and confusing by the residual boner—so he finally just nods, hoping that Jonas understands the breadth of his feelings.

Lucky for him, they’re interrupted when Eva stumbles over to them, eyeliner smudged and feet bare. She seems well on her way to sloshed, which comes as absolutely no surprise to anyone...but there’s a lightness to her, these days. Like she’s a little more at home in herself, even when she’s drunk out of her mind.

“Come dance with me,” she slurs, leaning down and tugging on Jonas’s hoodie insistently. Jonas rolls his eyes and puts on a big show of resisting, but Isak knows instinctively that it’s complete and utter bullshit. Jonas would follow her to the ends of the earth, even if it means revealing to the world just how awful he is at dancing.

It’s bad. Like... _really_ bad. Isak once saw Jonas attempt to Dougie at a party last year and honestly, it may have single-handedly gotten him over his unfortunate crush.

Jonas shoots him an apologetic look and allows himself to be dragged away, and Isak takes it as his cue to leave, too—the last thing he wants is to have his retinas seared by Jonas’s tragic non-moves. They just had a Very Special Moment, after all. No need to tank it immediately.

 _Beer!_ his mind declares, and...yes. Beer it is.

As he presses through the throng of partygoers to get to the kitchen, he passes Sara—he has no idea why she’s even here, although he suspects it has something to do with Sana and her never-ending quest to be a _good_ and _forgiving_ person, or whatever. Sara’s holding court with the rest of the girls from her bus, regal and smug, lording over them all. She looks right at home—truly in her element. No mysterious college boys in sight.

He tries to squeeze by her clique unnoticed, but he manages to trip over someone’s socked foot and stumble into the wall. _Fuck fuck ouch—_

Sara’s eyes snap to him.

He knows she’d never berate him, exactly, and she’d certainly never bring up their previous, superbly awkward conversation while she’s surrounded by her friends (minions, whatever). But he expects at least a glare, a withering gaze, a ball-shriveling sneer.

He certainly doesn’t expect her to shoot him a small, but surprisingly genuine smile...but that’s exactly what she does.

She doesn’t publicly acknowledge him or ask him how he’s doing, either—they’re just not that tight, and Isak is more than fine with that—but it still feels like a lot.

They haven’t talked about any of...that...again, and Isak doesn’t really think they ever will. But whether or not further blowjob advice is on the horizon, he’s glad to see that she seems okay.

He smiles back, and continues on his way.

The kitchen is mostly empty—save for Sana, who’s pouring herself a lukewarm soda from one of the sticky bottles littering the counter. It’s probably at least halfway to completely flat at this point, and Isak winces on her behalf.

She quirks her mouth when she sees him approaching. “Alright, best bud?” she asks.

He smirks right back. “Been worse,” he replies loftily. “You?”

“Fine,” she says, taking a sip from her cup and managing to stifle most of her grimace like a true champ. “Ready for that chemistry test?”

 _Ugh._ Isak pops the tab of his Tuborg and downs half of it in one go, just in case it’ll help him forget just how few times he’s cracked his textbook in the past couple of weeks.

“Not particularly,” he admits. He’s pretty sure he’ll be able to pull the rabbit out of the hat on this one—chemistry isn’t always his favorite, but he’s usually able to snag a good grade, even if he wings it on the fly. It drives Sana absolutely nuts, and that’s almost as awesome as the academic achievement.

She _tsk_ s quietly, but blessedly elects not to tease him about his lack of preparation this time. If he plays his cards right, she’ll lend him her notes, anyway.

After a beat of silence, Sana says: “Isak?”

“Mhm?”

Her whole demeanor has suddenly changed—soft and open now, where she was playful before. It’s an expression Isak’s noticed with increasing frequency, but he’s not totally sure if Sana has changed, or if it’s because his _relationship_ with Sana has changed. Either way, he’s into it.

“I heard what you did for Mikael.”

_Wait, what? How?_

“You did?” he says, and he completely fails to keep the surprise out of his voice. His mind races with the possible ways she could have found out— _Yousef? Elias? Maybe even Mikael, himself?_ “How did—”

“It doesn’t matter,” she says, shaking her head. “I have my ways.” She somehow manages to say that and _not_ make it sound like she’s got an in with the mafia, which is kind of impressive.

“You know…” he starts, polishing off his beer and reaching for another. “If we weren’t certified best buds, I might be scared of you.”

She snorts and waves his comment away. “You’re scared of me, anyway.”

If she had asked him six months ago, he probably would have agreed. But now...

“Nope,” he says, popping the P and grinning widely. “Because I happen to know that you’re actually all soft inside. All gooey, like a marshmallow.”

He blames the beer for making him say something that could very easily get him castrated, if Sana was in the wrong mood. He’s just glad he didn’t try to _poke_ her.

But she doesn’t try to deny his words—just tilts her head up to look at him, a knowing glint in her eye. “So are you,” she says, dimples flashing. “You’re a good person, Isak.”

He doesn’t know if she’s referring to the Mikael thing, or to the stuff with Sara, or to something else entirely...but damn. He feels...he _feels._ Maybe vaguely like...crying? _Seriously?_

“Uh, thanks,” he croaks, coughing awkwardly to cover the pesky emotions bubbling to the surface. “You’re pretty cool, too, I guess.”

She laughs, seeming to take the stilted compliment for what it is. “Thanks.”

“And you’re pretty much the only person I know who hasn’t pestered me for sex advice,” he adds, because wow, it’s basically true. “So that doesn’t hurt.”

Sana’s eyebrows shoot up at that, mouth flattening out into a smug, unimpressed line.

“Trust me,” she says, taking her cup of warm soda and backing out the kitchen. “If I wanted sex advice, I wouldn’t ask _you._ ”

_The fuck?_

“Hey!” Isak calls at her retreating back. “I’m _great_ at it, okay, you’d be _lucky_ —”

He swears he can hear her laughing as she disappears from view.

 

###

 

When Isak exits the kitchen, he nearly collides headfirst with Eskild’s eye-searing tie-dye shirt. He wants to complain because Eskild’s standing right in the fucking doorway, thanks, but Eskild doesn’t even notice his presence. He’s too engrossed in a seemingly intense conversation with...Mikael? The two of them are huddled close, their voices low and Eskild’s hand resting on Mikael’s arm.

 _Huh._ That’s...nice, actually. Eskild is _a lot,_ yes, a bit of an acquired taste...but it could be good for Mikael to talk to him.

 _No point in interrupting,_ Isak thinks, doing his best to slide by them on his way back to the couch.

And hey—Even’s there, grinning like a loon when he sees Isak approaching, stretching his arms outward for easy snuggling.

Isak wants to put up a fight because Even failed hard in his drink quest, but Even’s cuddles are fucking first-rate, high-caliber shit, and Isak’s man enough to admit that he wants to get all up in there. Even doesn’t half ass anything, really, but he treats the art of cuddling with all the seriousness of training for the army.

Isak collapses next to him and is immediately enveloped in highly satisfying warmth, so he bites the bullet and snuggles deeper into Even’s side, one of Even’s long arms sliding around his shoulders.

Yup. That’s the stuff.

Even hums, and Isak feels the vibrations of it against his cheek. “A little birdie told me you’ve become a bit of a sex therapist,” Even says into his hair, and Isak can hear the smile in his voice. “Rethinking your career path?”

Isak rolls his eyes. “You didn’t hear shit from any bird,” he says. “Pretty sure _I_ told you all about those conversations.”

He had to tell _someone,_ after all, and proximity alone made Even the most convenient target. The only other option was getting a lobotomy.

Plus, Even only laughed at him a little bit. He’s nice like that.

“You did,” Even agrees. “But I didn’t understand just how busy you’ve been. I found what Jonas and Mahdi had to say especially...illuminating.”

_Oh God._

Isak groans, hiding his face in the crook of Even’s armpit. He’d rather steer this conversation back to something less embarrassing, like the pasta sauce stain on his shirt. Which is, sadly, still very much visible because Noora put blacklights _everywhere._

“Whatever they told you, they’re lying,” he says, but it doesn’t sound believable, even to him. “They’re lying liars who _lie._ ”

Even pulls him in closer and starts stroking Isak’s shoulder with his thumb. “They said you were very helpful and that I’m lucky to have you,” Even murmurs, and Isak shudders at the feel of his breath against the crown of his hair. “I detect no lies there.”

 _Did they really say that?_ Jesus, it seems that Isak isn’t the only one going soft, lately.

Isak shrugs, embarrassed for a whole different reason now. “I didn’t really do anything,” he says, but Even ignores him.

“And I had an even _more_ interesting conversation with Sara,” he says idly, and Isak feels the color drain from his face. In no universe does that exchange end well, no matter how sweet and kind Even can be. “Well, not a conversation, really—she just sort of...yelled at me.”

“She _yelled_ at you?” Isak says, pulling back to look Even in the eye. He doesn’t care if they’re on quasi-good terms now—if he has to take Sara down, he has no qualms about it. No one’s gonna get away with yelling at Even on Isak’s watch, no matter how scary she is.

One time, Magnus accused Even of cheating at FIFA and Isak almost kicked him out of the apartment. He doesn’t fuck around.

“Well, she kind of...got all up in my face,” Even explains. “And she, like, poked my chest with her finger, and told me that you were her _first love_ and that if I don’t treat you right, she’ll make my life a living hell. That’s a direct quote.”

_Good lord._

On the one hand, it’s...almost flattering? Like, in Sara’s mind, that was probably a really lovely thing to do for someone. But on the other hand…

“I was _not_ her first love, or whatever the fuck,” Isak says, because he needs that on the record.

Even chuckles beside him. “I’m aware of that.”

“I don’t know why people keep...asking me about stuff,” Isak says, because he’s truly at a loss, and has been for some time. “I wish they’d stop.”

Even turns and looks at him curiously. “Why?”

_Because I’m slowly but surely losing my goddamn mind? Why else?_

“It’s annoying,” is what Isak goes with, instead. It’s not really a lie, per se—at any given time, you can bet Isak would rather be playing video games or sleeping or getting a fucking root canal than guiding his friends through their sexual crises—but Even seems to catch on that it’s not really the full story, either, raising his eyebrows expectantly and waiting for Isak to elaborate.

Ugh, Even knows him far too well. No wonder everyone thinks they’re gross.

“Like...it makes me uncomfortable, I don’t know.”

“Why?”

It’s one of those things where Isak doesn’t even know what he’s going to say until he says it. Doesn’t even know he’s _feeling_ the feelings until they come tumbling out of his mouth, brought forth by Even’s knowing smile, his compassionate gaze.

Or maybe Even’s a secret wizard. If secret assholes are a thing, secret wizards have to at least be on the list, right?

“I don’t know,” he says, voice small. He feels Even strain forward to catch his words. “I think...I think there’s always a part of me that’s a little...scared, or something.”

Even looks surprised. “Scared?”

“Like, it’s one thing to know that I’m...y’know,” he says. He’s okay with people knowing about that part of his life—it took considerably longer than he expected, but he’s finally at peace with it. Or as close as he’s going to get to peace, anyway. “But it’s another to, like…”

“Know that you actually act on it?” Even offers. And...yup. That about sums it up.

Isak nods.

Even is quiet for a moment, hand coming up to brush Isak’s hair out of his face—a move that’s generally more for Even than for Isak, most of the time. Isak doesn’t mind.

“You know they don’t actually care, right?”

Isak scoffs. “Uh, yeah. They’ve kind of made that clear, at this point,” he says. “I didn’t say what I’m feeling is rational.”

Even hums in thought, pulling Isak’s legs over his lap because he’s determined to make them _that_ couple. “It doesn’t have to be rational,” he says, matter-of-fact. “But...it’s pretty clear that your friends think you’re pretty great. They actually trust you with this weird shit, y’know? I think that’s kinda cool.”

Honestly, Isak’s never really thought about it like that. That Magnus’s probing interrogation, Mahdi’s tentative queries, Jonas’s heartfelt questions, Mikael’s stilted confessions, Sara’s...whatever that was...that all of these things aren’t actually burdens for Isak to bear. In a strange, fucked-up way, they were all tiny signals that his friends...actually care, somehow.

That they _love_ him.

_Gross._

_But also...not._

“You’ve come a long way, you know,” Even says, smiling like he knows what Isak is thinking and that he’s actually proud, the fuckin’ weirdo. “We both have.”

And...yeah, they really have. Not just at the bedroom stuff (although they’ve improved by leaps and bounds in that department), but at the little things. Existing in the outside world. Holding hands on the street. Being themselves when they aren’t alone. Kissing each other when they feel like it. Giving into their impulses, consequences be damned.

Sharing parts of their relationship with their friends.

“We have,” Isak says, resting his head on Even’s shoulder. It feels solid and sturdy and right, like it always does.

“Plus, when it comes to sex...they _should_ listen to you,” Even says, smirking lecherously. “You could probably teach a class.”

Isak’s face heats up—and his dick awakens from its slumber and once again takes interest in the proceedings, the little shit—but he manages to tamp that down enough to smile back. “Yeah?” he asks. He’s going for flirty and misses by a considerable margin.

But Even seems cool with it—his eyes go dark and he sweeps them up and down Isak’s form with intent. “Mhm.”

And you know what? Maybe Isak’s dick has waited long enough tonight.

“I’m going to go to the bathroom,” Isak says casually, meeting Even’s heavy gaze with his own and licking his lips because he knows full well it drives Even crazy. “Care to join me?”

Even doesn’t even bother to maintain the banter for a second longer—doesn’t bother to pretend he’s anything other than extremely and enthusiastically up for whatever Isak’s offering. He shoots up off the couch immediately, nearly knocking Isak over and grabbing him by the wrist to propel them towards the bathroom.

The same bathroom where Isak first went down on Even. _Good times._

Maybe they're about to recreate that milestone.

As he’s being dragged through the crowd by a comically eager Even, Isak can’t help but take stock of his surroundings. Mags and Vilde are dancing together—not particularly graceful, but they manage to make it cute—and Jonas and Eva are in the corner, completely wrapped up in each other like the loved-up, pre-coital idiots they are. Noora and Linn are hugging and sharing a bottle of champagne, Mahdi and Mikael are laughing about something, everyone is bright and happy and joyful and all that sappy shit.

And Even is looking back at him, hand in his and giving him a small, secret smile. Looking at Isak’s mouth like he’s strategizing the quickest way to get a kiss, and they aren’t even in the bathroom yet.

Isak grins.

He’s right where he wants to be.

 

###

 

They end up crashing at the kollektiv, too tired (Even) and drunk (Isak) to attempt the treacherous journey home. The sofas in the living room are exceedingly comfortable—Isak knows this from personal experience—so it isn’t hard for them to just...sink down into the soft cushions and curl up together after most of the party’s stragglers had fucked off and gone home.

That’s exactly how Isak wakes—at around seven in the morning, according to his dying phone—with Even spooned up close behind him, long line of his body contouring the curve of Isak’s spine, arms thrown haphazardly over his waist, drooling unattractively on the throw pillow that Isak had used to conceal his boner last night.

It’s almost poetic.

He wants to luxuriate in the feel of Even’s embrace for a little bit longer, maybe drift back into the warm clutches of sleep and grab a couple more hours, but his bladder isn’t having any of it.

Unconscious Even isn’t particularly pleased when Isak slowly extracts himself from his grasp and sits up—but Isak hands him another pillow and Even reels it in and holds it against his chest, shifting and exhaling in an adorably satisfied way.

Man, unconscious Even is so _dumb_. It’s Isak’s favorite thing.

When Isak’s eyes adjust to the light he sees Chris Berg curled up on the adjacent sofa and Jonas and Eva in a sleepy heap on the floor, so he takes care to be as quiet as possible as he gets up and pads in the direction of the bathroom.

He’s almost reached the hallway when he hears the door to Eskild’s room creak open, loud as a gunshot in the silence of the apartment, and the sudden noise nearly gives Isak a fucking heart attack.

He expects Eskild to pop out—probably on his way to the bathroom, as well—but instead, he hears hushed voices talking in the doorway. He thinks he catches one of them saying _the kitchen’s down the hall_ or something, but he can’t be sure.

Isak hears someone step into the hallway, and when he peeks around the corner, he sees…

_Mikael?_

Mikael, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. Mikael, who _smiles_ and _giggles_ when an equally half-naked Eskild whispers something in his ear, before taking off down the hall—in the direction of the kitchen, sure enough.

_What the fucking fuck is going on here?_

All of Isak’s reservations fly out the window, and he storms up to Eskild—or as close to storming as one can get while in socks and trying desperately not to wake people up.

“Eskild!” he hisses, and the dude in question snaps his head over and sees Isak coming, and he has the nerve, the audacity, to actually look _happy._ When he’s been caught _red-handed._

“Good morning,” Eskild whispers cheerily. “You’re up early.”

Isak won’t fall for Eskild’s wiley charms this morning—he’s pissed, okay? “What the fuck was _that,_ man?” he demands, gesticulating rather wildly in the direction that Mikael walked.

Eskild just gives a little shrug, like it’s no big deal. “What does it look like?” he asks plainly, and Isak wants to grab his shoulders and _shake him._

“What the fuck?” Isak says, throwing his hands up. “What about Mahdi? Are you cheating on him?”

Eskild tilts his head like he’s confused. “What?”

“You can’t fuck over my friend like that, man,” Isak barrels on, gaining steam. “That’s fucked up— thought you were _better_ than that.”

After all the times Isak had been forced to listen to Eskild’s many tales of tragedy and heartbreak...all the times Eskild had been left for another man, all the times his Grindr hookups were too afraid to commit to anything serious. All that shit, and Eskild up and does something like this? Where the hell does he get off?

“Get off” might have been a poor choice of words, in hindsight.

Eskild is frowning and actually looks a little bit offended now, and he’s finally opening his mouth like he’s about to provide a much-needed explanation for his treachery when someone’s voice calls out from...inside Eskild’s room?

“Can you knock it the fuck off, please?” says the voice, clearly irritated. “Wanna sleep.”

 _Who the fuck is that?_ Isak cranes his neck and manages to actually sneak a peek behind Eskild and sees...is that someone else in Eskild’s bed? A _shirtless_ someone? A shirtless _man?_

Isak takes stock of the mystery boy’s olive skin, his buzzed hair, his considerable abs…

Wait.

_Wait._

_ELIAS?_

“Ohmygod,” Isak whispers, unable to hold in his reaction and clapping his hands over his mouth. _Did they really...did they actually have a…_

And that’s when Elias rolls over and snuggles up to another human-sized lump under Eskild’s duvet...is _someone else_ in there? Isak can just make out the very top of the person’s head...

_Holy fuck._

It’s Mahdi.

Elias is spooning Mahdi.

In Eskild’s bed. In Eskild’s room. Where Eskild sleeps. Or, you know, doesn’t.

And Mikael was...oh _God._

Isak’s brain just...shuts down. Probably as some kind of defense mechanism against the onslaught of absolutely traumatizing mental images, or maybe because of the profound and debilitating shock of this axis-shifting new development.

“I...hu...wha…” he babbles, unable to vocalize an entire thought before his mind spasms in horror. “Did you...are they…”

Mikael chooses that moment to return with a glass of water, and when he sees Isak standing in the doorway, he freezes and blushes _hard._ There’s a hideously awkward pause in which Mikael looks like he’s debating whether to say something to break the tension—but ultimately, he opts to duck behind Eskild and flee the scene.

Can’t really blame him for that one.

And through it all, Isak just stands there, gaping like an idiot.

After taking a few moments to compose himself, he gulps loudly and looks at Eskild, who’s glancing longingly at the bed like he’d really enjoy getting back in the mix. _Ew._

“I...you...all of them?” Isak asks, pleading desperately with his eyes for Eskild to deny it. Or maybe for Eskild to push off the ground and start flying around the kollektiv, so Isak will know this is all just a particularly terrifying dream.

No such luck.

A slow, impish smile creeps over Eskild’s face, and Isak’s stomach drops to the floor, suddenly understanding with perfect clarity that the train’s about to hit him and there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it.

When Eskild winks and pats Isak on the shoulder condescendingly, it’s all over.

“You’re good, grasshopper,” Eskild says. “But there can only be one guru.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional spoilery tag: Implied Eskild/Mahdi/Elias/Mikael. Some polyamory up in this piece, because why not?
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr](http://diamondjacket.tumblr.com).

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Tumblr](http://diamondjacket.tumblr.com).


End file.
